


The Burdens of Honor

by geniusincombatboots



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Author doubles down on fudging source material, Boromir Lives AU, But also some dark stuff..., Comedy of Errors, Denethor is a creepy dick, Eventual Smut, F/M, I have seriously debated whether or not to put this up but I can't get these ideas out of my head, It's an AU to my own story, Past Boromir/Theodred, The Author Regrets Nothing, so I hope you enjoy it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 146,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25481137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geniusincombatboots/pseuds/geniusincombatboots
Summary: A young princess with no memory of her life is found on the shores of the River Isen, and is brought to the Golden Halls of Meduseld for safekeeping. She finds herself in an awkward situation when discovers that she has been betrothed to a man that she cannot remember, all the worse for she might have begun to care for someone else. And that is just the beginning.
Relationships: Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel
Comments: 200
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Lost Lady](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23390110) by [geniusincombatboots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geniusincombatboots/pseuds/geniusincombatboots). 



> Alright all, thank you for reading my works.  
> I know I've been lagging on the main story. I've been in the middle of moving and haven't had much time. Also because my brain likes to give me seedlings of ideas and then two days later those seedlings start poking at me. The most recent one has been formed as a question that tons of fans of Lord of the Rings had pondered before; what if Boromir had lived.  
> So, here is a remix of my own story as to how I think that would have affected my own tale. The first chapter has some parts of the original story, but I have tried to rewrite it a little so it won't be quite as boring as rereading the same thing over, and the second chapter might have some parts that are repeated but not as much.  
> I hope you enjoy! Comments and Kudos always appreciated.

Edoras

3019 TA

If anyone had asked him before he had thought to offer her sanctuary, Eomer would have had someone take the girl to the border of Gondor and leave her with her own people and let them sort it all out. There was something about her amnesia that had initially struck him as far too convenient. Even after he had vouched for her to his Uncle, The King, he had still meant to question her about what she had been doing in Rohan in the first place until she slipped and admitted some nefarious plan. The only thing that had stayed his hand was the look Eowyn had given him when he told her of his plan.

“If you are so concerned about her, I will take her into my charge,” Eowyn shook her head at him. She did not say it, but he could almost see her struggling not to say that he was an idiot.

“All I mean to say is, by what odds would a beautiful lady be traveling on her own? And that she should by some chance end up in the middle of an attack of Theodred?” Eomer asked, “They say the servants of the Enemy come in all shapes to better hide themselves.”

Eowyn rolled her eyes, “I have been taking her on her walks and, she seems perfectly sweet, if a bit young.”

“That might well be what a servant of-”

She shot him a look that quieted him immediately, “She’s a lost girl, and I will not have you upsetting her and making her condition worse.”

Eomer crossed his arms, irritably, “Fine, but if it turns out that she is not who she claims, I will not hear any whining.” He stewed on his irritation a moment longer before saying, “Who would even send their daughter out on her own like that?”

“They likely thought she would be safer the further she rode from the war,” Eowyn said, doing her best to be sensible, “Or perhaps she ran away from home.”

He let out a low grunt so that she would know that he had heard her, but that he had no answer to give. What would she be running from, if she had? His distrust aside, the few times he had seen her had chipped away at his assessment of her. It made him more irritable, if he was going to be honest. He could usually read people, and if he could not sort her out, then what could he be certain of? The idea of losing his objectivity simply because of a pretty face scared him.

He saw a little of the girl, Faurwen, through the days but he had done his best to keep a distance between them, wanting her to simply leave. They had troubles enough of their own, and he did not want to take hers on as well. He was certain that when her memories came back, she would leave Edoras, and that it would only be a matter of time.

But then she had stumbled, and he had helped her to her feet without thinking. When she had recoiled and screamed lost in a flash of a memory, something in him softened and he saw what his sister had been telling him was there in front of his eyes for days. She was a scared young woman, and he felt a sudden need to protect her, and to make amends for his coldness toward her.

He reminded himself that it could be all a part that she was playing, and so he offered her come food, and a rest, meaning to question her gently. But she seemed almost at ease, even as she nervously began to tease him. He began to tease her back, and he felt comfortable speaking to her, and he did not remember deciding to hold her hand in his, but she smiled at him, and her cat-like eyes seemed to flash. She was cautious, and guarded, but warm at the same time. 

He found her easily in the market, she stood out with her wild mane of black hair held back in a braid. She walked alone now, having assured Eowyn that she could manage it.

“You should be careful, walking though the marketplace alone, my lady,” Lord Eomer said, startling her with his sudden presence.

She smiled, curtsying quickly, “Is it so dangerous as that, Lord Eomer?”

“Incredibly so,” he said, a light of teasing jest in his dark eyes, “Cut-purses and thieves hide around every corner waiting to take advantage of a young lady alone. Observe,” he nodded to a group of children kicking a leather ball in the street, “Of them you must promise to be wary.”

“I assume they are vicious murderers,” she smiled.

“That ball has killed twelve of my best men,” he said, trying not to smile, even as he felt his features softening, “Better to stay clear of it.”

Faurwen’s face broke into an open grin as she laughed, her hand raising to hide her smile, “In honesty, I was thinking that I might feel safer here than I have anywhere else. There seems to be an earnest contentment here.”

He nodded slowly, “Though nothing here is as certain as it ought to be. We are further from the Dark Lord of Mordor, but we have our own devils to face.” He spoke with a vendor selling fruits and vegetables from a cart, speaking with the man in their language, waving off the man’s bow. Eomer tried to buy something from the man when he could, knowing that his farm was suffering, and that he had lost his sons a few years before and that he had no way to hire on the hands he needed. He always gave him more that the price of whatever he was buying, originally having to argue paying the man at all.

Eomer passed her one of the apples, tucked another into the purse that hung from his belt and took a bite from the last.

“Thank you, but, my lord, why are you ever ominous? Do you not ever think to look at the world and enjoy the golden light of its wonders?”

He gave no answer, stopping to think on her words. They were naïve, and almost childish. He had started to tell her so, but then, perhaps she needed to think that way. She had been through something that she was not trained to survive. What did a battle look like to a civilian? He thought on her position, and chewing the mouthful of apple, when he had finished, he said, “These are of the first apple harvest of the season.”

He watched her bit into the apple, a large munch that he was certain would have been turned heads in her home. Even with her limping walk, he could see her in some large stone ballroom. Perhaps it was the tilt of her chin, or the way she stared ahead of her, as if she was looking through those that sought to challenge her.

“Have you been able to remember anything else?” Eomer asked, almost wincing at the suddenness of the question, and the small shock that went through her. It was almost unnoticeable.

“I think that I lived by the sea,” Lady Faurwen said, delicately wiping some juice from her chin with her fingertips, “I have a memory of laying in my bed at night and hearing the waves on the shore below,” she squinted a little, trying to focus, “At least, I think it is a memory. The trouble is, I am not sure what I remember and what my mind is creating.” She took another, smaller bite from the apple, trying to be ladylike, “It seems as if my life comes back to me out of order, and I get a sense of faces, but I haven’t the names to put to them.”

Eomer slowed, his hand hovering at her elbow, reminding the instinct to touch her, to guide her, “This way.”

“Where does this path lead?” she asked hesitant, her feet stopping at the steps down a different path. Walking with a man in public was one thing, but the notion of following him to some private, raised alarms in the back of her mind.

“The stables,” he turned remembering that she might need help on the steps and saw her standing there, staring at him, her fingers tight on the cane in her hand, “What troubles you?”

“I…” her voice faltered; her cheeks flushed a little at whatever it was that she did not want to say.

After a moment of waiting, Eomer took a few steps toward her, “Are you in some pain?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

She flushed, looking down, “Is it quite… appropriate…?”

Lord Eomer smirked, and fought back a laugh at the question, “I have no inappropriate intention, on my honor,” he held out a hand into the short distance toward her.

Lady Faurwen accepted the hand nervously, starting down the short set of stairs after him. Her hand was light in his, even when it tightened a little.

“What do they teach you Gondorian ladies of the world?” he wondered aloud before he thought to stop himself.

“To be wary of strange men taking us from the path,” her answer was firm in its quiet, clearly not wanting to speak of such monsters.

His frown hardened, “I apologize, my lady. I make you an oath that so long as I am able to be called to your aid, I will try to protect you from any danger.”

The stable doors were open, and the smell of large animals and straw filled the space. It was warm and dappled by golden sunlight coming in through the wood grates in the roof. He always felt safe here, even when it felt as if the world was closing in.

“Firefoot,” Eomer said, patting his horse’s neck, and taking a knife from his belt split the last apple in half and fed one half to his horse, a sturdy black stallion with a pale grey and white face. Lord Eomer stopped in front of a grey horse, giving its neck a stoke, “Windfola is my sister’s horse, he is steadfast and full of heart.” Lord Eomer’s eyes scanned through the stalls, muttering under his breath before stopping in front of a stall, “This is Leofric,” he made a low clicking noise to call the horse, sandy brown with a pale mane, over to him.

Eomer held his hand to Lady Faurwen and gave her the other half of the apple. When she fed Leofric, a smile lit her features, her other hand reaching to smooth over the side of horse’s head, she made little cooing sounds. She blushed a little, and he wondered if she could feel him looking at her.

He cut his eyes away, following her movements and doing his best to keep his mind on his task, “Which horse is Eowyn’s?” Eomer asked her suddenly.

“Windfola,” Lady Faurwen said slowly, looking at him, confused by the question.

“And where is she stalled?”

“The fourth stall,” she gestured back.

“And Leofric has no rider now. If you have need of her, no one will notice for some time.”

“Lord Eomer-” she started, clearly hesitant at the way that he was speaking.

“No, I need you to listen to me. This is important,” he said quickly, “If something happens to me, if I am not here to protect Eowyn, to protect you, if something happens… if something happens to Theodred, if he dies- “

Lady Faurwen took in a breath, staring at him with wide eyes.

His hand moved without thought, grasping her shoulder a little more roughly than he ought to have, but he needed her to listen to him, “You must prepare to flee the city.”

“But the prince is healing well, there is no reason to-”

“You aren’t listening, Faurwen,” his hand squeezed on her shoulder, and he paused not liking that he had to use the name that was not hers, “If I am wrong, then there is nothing for you to do. But if I am right, and it comes to it, you need to get Eowyn out of the city, and keep each other safe.”

“Is Prince Theodred in such danger as that?”

“I pray that I am wrong, and that there is nothing to fear,” his hand slipped down her arm, resting at the crook of her arm, his eyes searching hers a moment longer, “You hardly know me, but I need you to trust me.” He hoped he was not making a mistake in trusting her with this charge.

“Why not tell your men, or the guards?” the Lady said, looking back at him, “I am not a warrior, my lord, how could I protect your sister?”

“If I am banished-”

“Whatever would you be banished for?!”

Eomer pushed on, not stopping to answer her, “If Wormtongue has the King banish me from the realm, my men will follow me. The rest who stay will be forced to follow the law of the land. They might not be able to help you. The first chance Wormtongue sees, he will take complete power, and my sister is strong, but he will come for her. You know he will.”

Lady Faurwen nodded, almost smiling, “I doubt, my lord, that Lady Eowyn would much care for the idea that she cannot protect herself.”

“She can do, and would do so well, but she would kill him.”

“So perhaps diplomacy might have a place after all?” Lady Faurwen said, needing a moment to collect herself.

For a moment he could not understand what she was saying, or why she was. It was something she had said to him days ago, “I would rather have you run,” he said honestly, his hand still on her arm.

“Whence should we go?”

“Anywhere you can. Go to the elves, hide in a cave, in a hole in the ground,” his voice taking on a little of an edge. Why did she have to find a way to joke when he was telling her something so serious, “Hide and I will come to find you as soon as I am able.”

“How would you find us?” she asked, not taking much stock in the oath.

“You are clever, my lady. I think you would find a way to bring me to you, if you so wished,” he said earnestly, almost smirking at her, as he was struck by his own words, “Swear to me you will do this. Do not give in to hesitation, at the first sign that things may turn poorly, get yourselves away.”

“I swear,” she said. She still looked at him, having not broken their shared gaze. A subtle change came over her face, “Do you know what just occurred to me?”

“What, my lady?” he realized suddenly that he was still touching her, his fingers wrapped loosely around her arm, his thumb smoothing over the fabric of her dress, feeling her skin move under the layers of fabric. He had not meant to do that, nor could he rightly say why he was.

“I have known you longer than anyone else,” she said, smiling a sad smile.

Something about her words and that look melted all the hardness that he had tried to hold tight, not wanting to let anyone in that he had not known for years. Did he not have some responsibility to her, to protect her from everything that he was certain would be coming?

He hardly knew her past their brief acquaintance, but he felt as if he could trust her. He felt a sudden desire to kiss her, but she had given him no indication that she would accept such a thing, nor did he know why he wanted to wrap her in his arms, why he thought it might be comforting. Her skin looked so soft, and seeing a brief moment to touch her cheek, he took it, brushing a loose curl back from her face. There was a plain innocence in her, but some a sadness buried deep behind her eyes, that pained him a little.

She did not withdraw from him, but her breath came out in a small shudder, and the color was high on her cheeks again, and it was some measure of satisfaction that he might hold onto. She was beautiful, and for a moment, he thought about going to Eowyn and telling her to pack a bag and taking them both with him wherever it was he would be going, or to take them to his house at Aldburg where at least they would be further from the vile darkness that had been coming into Meduseld, but it was hardly a stronghold and Wormtongue would look there first.

He knew this meeting would not go well, that his temper would not be checked if the Worm interfered. He had seen enough and had held his tongue as long as he could stand to.

It was a foolish notion, and he knew that he could not risk the safety of either of the ladies, not being certain by what manner he would be expelled from his country. If she held true in the duty that he had given her, they would both be safe, and he could see her again.

For a moment he thought to ask her if he might expect to see her again, if she might accept his interest. But he withdrew from her, not wanting to entangle the young lady more than he already had in the mess that his life was certainly turning into.

“Why are you suddenly so concerned?” Faurwen asked, hurrying to catch up to him, leaning a little on the walking stick as she went.

“My lady sister and I are going to speak with the King, but should anything go awry, should some ill mark us as liars, there must be a plan in place. This is our last chance,” Lord Eomer said, stopping to look out at a horse wildly bucking and kicking at the men trying to calm him. He let out a low breath, leaning a forearm on the fence of the fence penning the horse in. If Brego could only tell them what had happened, they might have come clue, and the lady’s family would not need to wonder at where she was, if they were.

“Are they breaking that horse?” she asked, suddenly close beside him.

“Not that is my cousin’s horse, Br- “

“Brego…” she finished the name, quietly.

Eomer rounded on her, “How do you know that?”

Her lower lip was trembling, and she tried to stop it, to regain her composure.

“Tell me!” he snatched her roughly, “What happened?” He knew in some part, Orcs from Orthanc had attacked, but why were any of them there? How long had she been riding with Theodred?

Faurwen winced at his grip on her, her eyes squeezing shut against the memories, “You will be angry, I think.”

“Do not tell me what you think,” Eomer’s hands softened on her, his hands moving gently on her arms as if offering comfort to a scared animal.

“It is all my fault,” she gasped out against the tears she was trying to hold back to no effect.

“How could it be so?” a sharp tangle of panic was beginning to form at the back of his neck at her words.

“I do not…” she kept her eyes closed, “I think I was lost, and Theodred had stopped to help me, and he was escorting me somewhere with his Eored… at first we were coming to Edoras, but something happened, Prince Theodred saw something and directed me away on a different path. I remember him riding beside me, and then,” there was a knot in her throat. She looked up at him, a tear disobeying her will and rolling down her cheek.

“I am so sorry. It is all my fault. If Theodred had ridden on, commanded one of his men to ride with me, or if he had just passed me on the road, he might not have come to harm at all.”

“Are you certain of this?” He asked, fighting to still his hand. She looked so small, and so alone, and it broke some part of him to see her crying over something that was not her fault, blaming herself for the actions of others, and thinking by happenstance that she was something that he had once meant to accuse her of being.

She turned away from him, swallowing hard, closing her eyes again, “How else could I know Brego’s name, my lord?”

He lifted a hand to touch her again, to console her. He could press his hand to her shoulder, rub her back, or hold her for a moment and tell her that it was not her fault any more than it was his. He could wipe the tears from her cheeks and hold her face in his hands until she heard reason. The hand hovered there out of her sight for a moment before he closed his hand and dropped it back by his side. There was no reason for him to want to protect her, or to care for how she felt, or to feel as if something in his breast shattered at the sight of her, small and alone.

He barely knew her. She was a pretty girl, and she was funny, and he thought that she might be smarter than she pretended to be, but he did not know her. But he had the matter of his country’s safety to see to, hopeless as he knew it was.

“I must go,” Eomer stood close behind her, his voice was gentle, but felt heavy somehow, “I beg you to remember your oath, my lady.” It was all he could do, and he wished that he had more time.

0x0x0

There was something that came to the door of her cell, and it took her muddled mind longer than it should have to recognize the whining of a dog, his paw scratching at the door and at the space under it. She hoped the evil men would not hurt the innocent animal. She just wanted to sleep, to conserve her strength until the bark sounded from the dog, raising an alarm in her instincts, pulling her limbs into herself, shielding her body as best she could against further assault as the door opened.

“My Lady!” Eowyn called, seeing the small shape of the woman curled against the corner of the dungeon room. She was dressed in only her kirtle and she was cold to the touch, her hair a mad tangle and her lips chapped, and bleeding from a blow. A fresh bruise had started to form on the skin of her left cheek. Lady Eowyn crouched before her, “What have they done to you?”

Faurwen opened her dry mouth, and a lowly croak came pleading out, “I am no assassin, my lady, you must tell the king so…”

“All of Wormtongue’s work is to be undone,” Lady Eowyn said, helping Faurwen to her feet, “I did not know you were here.”

“Where did you think I was?” Faurwen asked, confused, and trying not to feel angry at the abandonment.

Baldgwyn held a cup of water to Faurwen’s chapped lips, “Slowly girl,” her soft voice came out as Faurwen sipped the water, “We don’t want to shock your body.”

“Wormtongue said that you had left with my brother when he was banished,” Lady Eowyn said, “he said that you had left me behind.”

Faurwen shook her head, taking another small drink of water, “I was bidden by Lord Eomer to get you out of the city if it went poorly, though I clearly failed in my charge.” Why would anyone believe that Lord Eomer had taken her with him? Unless they had thought that he had meant to take her back to Gondor and send her blindly on her way?

Baldgwyn was smoothing a hand over Faurwen’s back, “There is no need to worry about that, lady, for we are delivered. I think that beast had hoped to let you die down here and that no one would ever know to look for you.”

Caelon’s wet nose prodded at her knee as if testing her for transparency, making Faurwen think that she must look like a ghost, some terrible haunting soul trapped in these walls. The ladies were putting a wool, woven wrap around her shoulders over the thin kirtle that she wore, as they slowly walked through the corridors of the hall. Faurwen felt aware of the shocked and pitying faces that she passed as she was led from her captivity.

“Uncle,” Lady Eowyn said to a man of golden hair and beard, a few strands of silver mixed into the fullness of his hair, “This Lady is of Gondor, and Eomer offered her sanctuary here.”

Faurwen looked at the King, startled but the change in his person. He seemed perhaps twenty years younger than he had before, “By the grace of the Valar…” Faurwen whispered in shock, her voice cracking a little. She attempted to curtsy, staggering and almost falling.

“I extend the offer of sanctuary, my lady,” Théoden King, reached out to help stabilize the young lady, his hand catching her shoulder, “for however long you should need it,” The King’s voice was clear before he turned his attention to Baldgwyn, “My Lady Baldgwyn, please take her needs in hand, if you would, and ensure her comfort. Have a bath drawn for her, and see that she is fed.”

“Thank you, Théoden King,” Faurwen said, trying to sound regal, but sure she was failing in it. There were people in the hall, and she saw them vaguely like wisps of smoke in the dark.

The King gave her a kindly look of concern, “We will see that you are well tended, my lady. Do not hesitate to ask for anything that you might need.”

She could see the regret in his eyes at not only her own state, but the state to which everything around him had fallen.

0x0x0

Hot water was brought, and yet more broth, and Baldgwyn stayed by her side, ignoring Faurwen’s protests, “I am sure you have more pressing matters to tend to, my lady.”

“No, Lady Faurwen, I have taken you on as my charge,” the motherly lady said, “The ladies of this court are not so dainty as our kin to the South. We all pitch in and we tend to each other.”

Faurwen felt ashamed, her face warm.

Baldgwyn laughed, “You thought I was only some aged servant?”

“I am sorry of my mistake, my lady.”

“Ah, don’t be,” Baldgwyn rubbed some oil into her hair, to make it shine perfuming it with the scent of the flowers that bloomed over the flatlands, “You have suffered greatly, sweet girl, and in such hard times, it is more important that you be made comfortable than to bow to such high courtly manners as you are accustomed to. Such ways hold little enough sway in these lands.”

“But as a noble lady, you are entitled to certain respects.”

“The respect, I’ll take,” Baldgwyn began to pull a wooden comb through the damp tangles of Faurwen’s hair, “When you get to be my age, you find that proprietary nonsense is just that. I am a widow and my sons have gone to uphold their oaths to Lord Eomer. If I were not tending to you, I might find myself some cranky old woman alone in my home.”

“Lord Eomer… was indeed banished?” Faurwen asked.

“Just before those brutes took hold of you. But these new travelers say that Lord Eomer still rides out, patrolling the Riddermark and doing what he can to protect our people.”

Faurwen didn’t give a reply, she was lost in her own thoughts. After a moment, she finally said, “He warned me of what could come with his banishment.”

“Oh, that boy has always been one to prepare for the worse, though he can be rash in his own decision making. Though I will at least say that he doesn’t turn to a braggart when his pessimism turns true,” Baldgwyn stood, holding a linen towel out for Faurwen.

“He seems a good man,” Faurwen said, simply.

“He is, though he can be cantankerous, make no mistake. He had to grow up faster than was right.”

Faurwen thought on how strange it felt for a lady to act as Baldgwyn did. A lady of the Mark was tutting over her hair like a maid, having sat her at a simple desk-like vanity against the wall by the window. There was no glass mirror, but a slap of polished metal, that Faurwen turned her eyes reflexively from. She knew there were handmaids here, yet this lady who must have been in charge of her own manor was combing and brushing out her hair, and she spoke freely as she did so.

“I always wanted a daughter,” Baldgwyn said gently confiding, “But it was not to be.”

“Are all ladies for Rohan so free with their opinions?” Faurwen asked, “I mean no offense, but I do not think it is so at home.”

Baldgwyn smiled but did not answer, a small shadow coming over her face as she looked at Faurwen’s face, “Oh, look what those beasts did to your pretty face,” her weathered hand gently stroked the sore spot on Faurwen’s cheek.

“Am I pretty? I must have looked ghastly after all the trauma I have been through.”

“Have you not seen your face, child?”

She had seen warped glimpses of her and in the basin of water she washed in each morning, but it had not seemed important. Further, some fear had stopped her from looking at her face in the mirror, knowing she might not recognize it, and not ready for the strange feeling of not knowing her face.

“Go on, look,” Baldgwyn gently pushed her toward the metal mirror, and the urging her to look at the pale circle of her face under the damp cover of her black hair.

Faurwen looked at the reflection in the mirror, and she almost gasped. The face looking back at her did indeed look a fright, battered and bruised, but she struggled to look past the healing cut to her forehead, the split lip and the swollen ugly dark bruise to look at the face. It had a simple sort of prettiness, maybe even beauty, her features well appointed, her nose soft and straight, her blue grey eyes wide, and her lips plump and pink. Her skin besides those blights of violence was pale golden and smooth, forming a rounded oval. What struck her most of all was how young she looked. The wide eyes that stared back at her did not seem to show how old she felt at present.

She looked back at Baldgwyn who smiled, “You are very lovely, dear girl.” The older lady pressed a kiss against the top of her head before returning to her attention to gently pulling tangles from her dark curls.

0x0x0

Faurwen found herself no longer the only stranger of the court of Meduseld. The wizard Mithrandir had brought with him, a Dunedain ranger, a Gondorian Man, a dwarf and an elf into the city. They had been tracking a raiding party of Uruk-hai in search of their friends who had been taken, and with them they brought news that Lord Eomer was alive and well, but continuing his patrol, and ignoring the now broken banishment. A sense of sadness washed through Faurwen, knowing that Lord Eomer was unaware that he was allowed to return to his home.

She had never met Mithrandir but had some strange beginning of a memory taking shape in her mind that she had seen him about the halls of Minas Tirith years before, and that some of her family treated him with suspicion, her uncle seeming him as a miscreant and a trouble maker. She could almost make out the faces of her family members, but thought that they might be a little distorted in someway, still not able to remember their names at all.

Faurwen thought that Mithrandir seemed to be offering sound council to Theoden King from what little she could hear as she peered around a support column at the far end of the hall, almost nervously, peering at the guests.

“What are you doing, girl?” Lady Baldgwyn asked, tugging on her skirt, leading her out of the hall.

“I have never seen an elf before,” Faurwen said quietly, thinking that she had heard stories of the fair folk.

“There are a great many things you have not seen, but I doubt now is the time for your curiosities,” Lady Baldgwyn had gently scolding her before peeking around for a look, “I don’t see what the fuss would be anyhow, slim fellow like that, like as not, a wind would knock him down.”

Lady Eowyn shot her a teasing look, her eyes wide before she let out a quick puff of air and gestured with her hand as if a tree was falling over.

Faurwen let out a quick laugh, clasping a hand over her mouth as they started out of the hall. They were not meant to be spying on the small assembly, and she was certain she was going to be told off for it.

The voice that called out was strange, but almost familiar, “Lothiriel?”

She turned to look back, confused by the question, and the look of joy that came over the Gondorian’s face as soon as he took her in, “Sir?”

The Gondorian was running at her, reaching out, grasping at her, and perhaps it was not right, but she did not remember doing it, she only realized what she had done when everyone was staring at her, and the man was holding his jaw.

She must have hit him hard for how badly her knuckles hurt. That hand was still clenched in a fist and pulled back to strike him again if he touched her. She was shaking a little, her voice quavered out, “I do not know you.”

His grey eyes watered a little, likely from the punch, “I am Boromir…” He stared at her, seeming more confused than anything else, or else trying to decide if this was some violent joke.

She had punched the Steward’s son, and that knowledge sent her to her knees, ready to beg for her life, “I did not know, my lord, I swear!”

He looked even more confused, hesitating in reaching back to her, clearly not wanting to risk another attack.

“She has some severe memory loss, my lord,” Lady Eowyn said, gentle, but guarded. As far as she could tell, he seemed to know their guest well enough that this actions would not be by any means indecorous, but still she had taken her as a companion and worried that anything that might upset her would worsen her condition.

A flash of understanding came over Boromir’s face, “Oh, dear girl. I… Then you do not even know who _you_ are?”

Her head shook wildly, her fist ready if he tried to touch her again, thinking that if she was going to be executed for attacking the beloved son of Lord Denethor, one of the chief heroes of her country, she might as well avenge her discomfort again.

“You are Lothiriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, my cousin,” he stooped, offering her his hand, “and... this may come as a bit of a shock, but…” He smiled, kindly at her, reticence in his eyes, “we are to be married.”

She heard the words, she understood them, but it was as if someone had shoved her underwater and was holding her there. Everything seemed to come to her through warbled distance. All she could think, all that Lothiriel could think over and over again was that she did not know him, and she did not want to marry him. Standing, she nodded her understanding, gave him her thanks and apologies and begged to be pardoned, and all but ran from the hall.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, just a quick note and then we can get into the new chapter.   
> I hope, as I always do when I write and post stories that you are enjoying this tale so far.  
> I have honestly been super nervous about this story and posted it mostly because I haven't been able to stop writing it (rather than working on my main series, I know I'm terrible). I did not really think that anyone would read it beside the people that already follow my main LOTR series.   
> This story is an AU of that one, and I would recommend checking it out if you're at all interested. That said, I did not include the first few chapters of the story, thinking that it would be boring to anyone that had already read it.  
> However, I have done my best to include some exposition to better give a sense of what has happened so far to catch up the reader. I'm going to do my very best to keep everything as simple as possible so that this reads easily.  
> Anyway, here we go; chapter two!

Lady Eowyn had done her best not to laugh when the dignified way that the lady guest had excused herself turned to a frantic run as soon as she thought she was out of sight of anyone that would look after her. She stood there with Lady Baldgwyn and with Lord Boromir and they had watched her, each of them standing on a spectrum that ranged from confusion to amusement. After a moment Eowyn had offered to collect Princess Lothiriel or else to calm her and see if she might be convinced to come back to Meduseld when she was ready to do so and ensure that she was alright.

It was not a hard duty, as Eowyn had found that she liked the stranger, even if she seemed to look through people at times. She had so far been a comfort of a sort and Eowyn was not certain that she could imagine how strange the last weeks had been for Lothiriel.

The lie Wormtongue had told, that Eomer had taken Lothiriel with him and left Eowyn behind should not have been so easy for her to believe, and perhaps some part of Eowyn had known it could not be true, but for the fact that she could not find the lady anywhere. She felt as if she owed Lothiriel more that the general care she had given her before the imprisonment now, having failed to ask any questions at all. If she had only looked a little harder, or listened to the maids, she might have known that she had not left Edoras until that moment.

Eowyn hesitated at the gates, the guards hesitating in their action, uncertain as to whether or not they should call out to the distressed woman. She paused there, looking out into the field beyond the city where she could make out the dark shape of Lothiriel’s head where she sat in the grass staring west.

The dark head turned suddenly as soon as Lothiriel heard the grass shifting, a look of terror and rage in her eyes. She looked almost like a caged animal until she saw that it was Eowyn coming toward her, and in that moment her face softened.

“Are you well, Your Highness?” Eowyn asked, remembering at the last moment that she ought to use the proper honorific.

Lothiriel looked down, her fingers worrying at a stalk of tall grass, “That was dreadful of me.”

“I think it an appropriate response, given the circumstances,” Eowyn stooped beside her, sliding a hand under her skirts before she sat. The smile she gave the younger woman was wry, “Were it me, I would have done the same, but I might have struck him again.”

Lothiriel chuckled a little, looking up for a moment, then back down her hands as she curled the fingers of her hand back into a fist as if testing that her fingers could still be trusted to work, “I know I ought not to have run, I know he is an honorable man, and that at least I am not being wed to a stranger,” she said as if it was what she knew she was meant to say, but hearing the words she laughed a little, “at least I knew him before, when I had full grasp of my life before I came here.”

“What do you want to do?” Eowyn asked, and it was as if no one had ever asked Lothiriel that before.

“I am not certain that there is anything to do besides what has already been decided,” Lothiriel looked back at Eowyn, there was something focused in that gaze, as if she was making peace with the new information but was still grappling for some other choice.

Eowyn knew that look, and knew what Lothiriel felt, the trap that she felt had been laid by life for every member of their sex and rank, though to varying degrees. She wanted to help, but was not certain that she would be able to offer any help beyond what she did now, “One of the few benefits of station, is that we may sit here as long as you wish, and hardly anyone would be able to tell us to go back.”

“Where did you run to when you needed to get away from…” Lothiriel’s voice stopped short, “when you needed to be on your own?”

“I would try to find somewhere within myself,” Eowyn admitted, “for what little good it has done me.”

“Do you not fear the depths to which you might withdraw?”

“Perhaps that is the risk we take if we mean to survive. If it would suffice for an animal to burrow into a den, it might do well enough for us,” Eowyn said, looking out over the plains and the low hills for a moment before looking to the funeral mounds where all her dead kin lay. Theodred would soon join them, and that reminder panged at her soul, but served as a reminder that might not have been approved of by anyone that she thought to voice it to. For a moment, she hesitated before she spoke, “My cousin’s death has a lesson that I mean to take to heart if I am able.”

Lothiriel, Her Highness, looked at her, a small quirk in her brow waiting for her to go on.

“We have so little time, and if we spend that time living locked in place, and doing what others expect, but not serving our own purpose, we will not live at all.”

Lothiriel nodded, her lips forming a sad, crooked smile, “Unless there are others who would be hurt by our actions. If our families will be negatively affected, then perhaps it would be better to suffer in silence.”

“Is that what you truly think?” Eowyn asked, more than a little horrified.

“I do not know. My mind seems to move beyond me, too rapidly for me to catch at my own certainty. But I think that there are duties I am bound to, and that they are stronger than my own wishes.” She began to speak further, but stopped short, as if uncertain even so far as what she had already said. “Would you mind terribly if we only sat here a moment and listened to the wind in the grass? Then we can return. I ask only a few moments where I might not need to think.”

They sat there in silent contemplation, Lothiriel’s pale eyes closed and Eowyn wondered if she had managed to stop her mind, if she could let her mind empty of everything and just listen or if she was still wrestling with the contradiction of her will and her duty.

There were greater threats in the world, and they both knew that, but there was almost something comforting in the simple distress shared between two young women that had become friends by chance and turmoil.

0x0x0

Lothiriel had come back as she had promised that she would, and she had accepted Borormir’s arm when he asked if he might speak with her away from the ears of the others lingering about the Great hall. They both knew that it would be better to have some sort of understanding between them.

Lothiriel sat quietly against the wall, the wind had pulled some of the hair loose around her face, and she was doing her best to listen to what Boromir was saying to her. She knew she should be listening, and she should be responding, but she still felt as if she was in shock.

He was telling her about her family, and his family. He was her cousin, and he had a brother that she was close with. His father had arranged the match, and that her father was hesitant, but it was a good match. He spoke with certainty that she had assented, but she did not share that certainty. She could not remember anything about it, or if she was allowed to change her mind had she given her assent.

“Are you alright?” he asked suddenly, and she realized that she had not been listening as well as she should have.

“It is just a lot to take in,” it was the safest answer that she could give. She tried to smile, “and so quickly. I might need some time to think.”

“What about?”

She looked at him, her head turning slowly, as if trying to take stock of the question, if it was asked in earnest, or if it was given in jest. “Everything. I only remember the last… almost two weeks. I did not even know my own name before you said it… I…” She could not find the words to say all the things she was thinking and feeling. She was a princess, and she was supposed to be polite and delicate, but there was so much more inside her and she wanted to scream.

His hand was gentle as it took hers, “I understand, and I am sorry. I know this must come as a shock, and I should be more sensitive to…” He looked away, wincing a little.

For a moment, she wondered what he was thinking, but she didn’t ask. Staring out across the plains, she realized she didn’t really want to know. She felt suffocated by the rage that was quietly building in her chest. It was stupid, but should she not have remembered if she had promised to marry someone? She could not remember her own family, people she had known her entire life, but she felt like she would know if she had made such a decision, at least have some sense of it. She could almost remember the rest of the things he was telling her, but not agreeing to a marriage.

“I know that this is not what you might have expected, all the more for your current condition, but you should know that I have ever borne you an kindly affection,” he said, the gently given assurance calmed the fire in her chest a little. “But if you find that you would rather break from our betrothal, I would support whatever action you would think to take.”

Perhaps things were not as terrible as she thought, perhaps she could make a life, and perhaps she was being irrational in her quiet rage. She had not given him a chance at all. Her fingers fidgeted at the silver pendant at her collar, a small oval with the white tree pressed into it, carefully engraved.

It came back to her in a quick flash, as every slim wisp of memory thus far had, “You gave me this,” she said, “when I was sixteen. I had just been presented at court for the first time…” There was something about that season that she did not want to remember, even as she hungered for more information of her life. Something had happened, and now she knew how to punch, how to grapple and how to fight after a fashion, and whatever it was had in some small part cemented that she should learn to ward off a person’s attention.

“Yes,” Boromir smiled. There was something wistfully sad in his smile and she could see that he knew whatever it was, but that he held his tongue, not wanting to burden her further than he already had.

“You were always there, looking out for us,” she said, slowly, knowing that he had done his best. He had pulled apart the gaggle of she and her brothers when they got in to scraps over silly things and had always let her tag along after the boys. She felt herself scrambling, trying to reach memories that were just beyond her fingertips, stretching out, it was as if they moved further from her grasp, never to really be within her touch. “What if I never remember everything?”

“Then you will just make new memories,” Boromir smiled. She could see the kindness in his eyes. He was still holding her hand, and she almost felt comforted by it.

Lothiriel smiled back, doing her best to feel comfortable in her own skin, in who she was. But, something didn’t feel right. She didn’t feel like someone that had been born into a world of wealth and privilege, even though she knew she was. Maybe she had felt this way her entire life, as if she just wanted to scream, and as if she just wanted to tear loose of everything.

“I would ask that you tell me how it is you came to be here, as far as you can remember,” Boromir was studying her face with open interest.

She looked away, doing her best to calculate her reply letting out a low, silent breath, “As far as I know, I was on the road leaving Minas Tirith,” she faltered already, feeling uncertain, “I am not from that city…”

“No, my lord father had asked you stay with us for a time,” Boromir said, a thrum of encouragement in his voice, “you were offering him aid.”

“What with?”

He shrugged a little to find the right words, “Minding his schedule, and his papers, I think. You have always been clever, and it might have seemed a waste to have you only mind your father’s house.”

Lothiriel nodded slowly, not wanting to tug on that thread, knowing that she would lose track of her tale if she did, “Well, I was on the road and the best I can recall, Theodred Prince had found me lost. He was… We were riding somewhere, but I know not where. I was traveling west, and there was an attack. Orcs came from everywhere and…” she took a shallow breath, her gaze dropping, not wanting to remember the smell of blood and bodies when she had awoken on the bank of the River Isen.

“Is that where Lord Eomer and his men found you?”

She nodded slowly, “By pure chance I woke while they were searching for the prince, and they brought me hence. I could barely walk for a few days, and barely rest on my back.”

“Why?”

“Something struck my back, and I suppose my horse must have gone from under me. The orcs must have thought me dead,” she still did not meet his eye, keeping her gaze fixed on her hands, folded and shaking in her lap. “The scars on my back may heal in time, but there is little certainty.”

“How ever did you end up in the dungeons, then?” the voice beside her was careful and measured.

“Lord Eomer warned me that he might be banished, and that if such a thing should occur then I was to get Lady Eowyn from the city,” she said, still feeling as if she would be chastised for something, knowing she had done nothing wrong, as if she was giving a report to a headmistress of how she had come to be sent to her office. “I failed in that charge, for it would seem I made and enemy of Wormtongue. I saw his interest in her ladyship and did my best to protect her from having to sit with him at the evening meal, and by that gave Lord Eomer an opportunity to speak with his Uncle, Theoden King without immediate interruption.”

Boromir laughed, startling her sharply back into herself. “You have been here perhaps so briefly, and you have managed to get yourself in the middle of a court squabble? Does trouble follow you, or do you seek it out?”

Lothiriel looked at him, feeling in equal measure cowed and enraged, “Do you think this has been all of my making, then?”

“Not at all,” Boromir said, still chuckling, waving her irritation away, “but one does wonder how you always seem to be in the middle of some trouble or other.”

“Was it that way before?” she asked, watching the smile fade a little as her cousin thought on the question.

“Not in the last few years, at least not to such a degree as that would garner much mention, I would grant you, but you have ever struggled to hold your tongue if you saw something that disagreed with you.”

She could sense something missing from his answer, but she wondered if that was more due to the sense that she had not been able to fight off since the first tendrils of her memories had started to come back to her. The person she had been before remained a mystery, but she thought that she might not like that person very much.

“And before that?” she asked.

“You were at school,” Boromir said easily, “from the time you were perhaps ten years of age or so until you were presented you were attending to your studies to be a lady.”

“Was I a good student?” she asked, knowing that finishing school was usually seen as a sort of last resort for young ladies who seemed unteachable by their families or by their tutors and governesses.

“That I can hardly say…” He was smiling a little, and she was once more struck by how irritating it was to speak to someone that knew more of her life than she herself did.

“You are a Captain of the Army of Gondor,” she said slowly, trying to remind herself of some other information and failing to find anything that might make decent conversation, but failing and feeling a little stupid for it.

“Yes,” he was watching her again.

“I wish I could remember…” she looked at him, her head tilting a little for a moment, “I am sorry I hit you.”

“No, I am pleased you remember how to strike so well. If you forget all other lessons that have been given you, I would beg you remember how to defend yourself,” he smirked a little, and said nothing else. A look came into his eyes and she knew he was thinking of some part of their past that she could not yet grasp. “At least we can be certain that you are at least yourself still.”


	3. Chapter 3

The next day passed in a whirl of action and talk, and of morose fascination for Lothiriel. She knew that she should feel a greater sense of sorrow that she did as she watched Theodred’s funeral standing by Lady Eowyn’s side. She wanted to reach out to her, to hold Lady Eowyn’s hand or something of the sort but knew that it was not to be done. Seeing Theodred’s body brought down to his mound startled her more than a little. He looked wrong, and it took her a while to realize that it was because he had been left for a few days. His pale skin was a little bloated and Lothiriel did her best to look away as soon as she could, comporting her features into a look of morose contemplation.

Everyone had assured her that it was not her fault what had happened, but she stood there alive, and men that had trained their entire lives for battle were dead. And for that alone, Lothiriel was not certain that she could believe it. She knew that people said that there was some divine plan in everything that happened, but she could not see it from where she stood. Young men had died and for what purpose? They had died because they had wanted to ensure her safety through their country, and there seemed to be no purpose to her being alive still, where they would undoubtedly be needed to defend their country, and in Theodred’s case, to someday rule it.

She listened to the funeral songs her eyes downcast, as the women keened and sang. She knew that her own kin did similar things, but the sounds were different. Within hours of the funeral for the King’s son, they had to leave Edoras for Helm’s Deep, an ancient stronghold that might ensure the safety of the people.

Lothiriel had the self-pitying thought before she could check herself that she had so few things to pack, and they had all been borrowed from Lady Eowyn, cast offs and things that she had no use for, or would not miss. It was an act of charitable kindness, but it made Lothiriel feel shapeless. She knew who she was in slivers, and so far, did not have a single piece of clothing to her name that she had picked out or had made for herself.

She knew it was a stupid concern, in the face of everything else that had and was happening, and she never voiced it aloud to anyone.

0x0x0

The long walk to Helm’s Deep was a slow drudge of a journey, and Lothiriel, Princess of Dol Amroth had given up her horse to an old woman who looked to need it more than she did. It was a whim, and though kindly, she regretted it by the end of the second day when her still healing back and legs screamed at her for her tender-hearted stupidity. She was so tired that she almost ate Eowyn’s stew, but not quite. She made do begging a boiled potato from Lady Baldgwyn and had eaten it as soon as she was certain that no one was looking. She wiped at her mouth delicately and locked eyes with Boromir who was losing a fight with his smile, and showed her his own potato, gotten from someone, before hiding it back under the bowl of stew with a quick furtive movement, looking over his shoulder.

They had a secret now, born of a need not to hurt the feelings of a friend or ally, and it was a comforting notion, if only for that it felt as if they had shared such secrets before.

Lord Eomer’s dog, Caelon, bless him, ate the stew and no one seemed to be the wiser. The large wolfhound had taken to following after Lothiriel, and he had been kind enough to offer the comfort of climbing on to her lap whenever she sat at his level and her mind wandered beyond her will, clearly thinking that he was smaller than he was. She had fed Caelon from her plate while they had been at Edoras even before Lord Eomer had given her an irritable assurance that anything that was good enough for them to eat would likely be good enough for him.

She almost felt as if she knew what was coming as soon as they came to the fortress, then the news that Lord Aragorn had fallen came, a rumor that turned out to be greatly exaggerated. The news that he brought when he came hours after the rest of Edoras had begun to make their camp, was that the enemy was on the move and coming to them. And from that point time seemed to pass in a dizzying whirl of action so that she hardly remembered the details of any of it beyond helping Lady Eowyn organize the food and supplies until the order came from Theoden King.

She had stood at the opening of the caves, the knot in her stomach clenching tight at the very idea of sitting in a space that she knew would offer protection as long as the Deeping Wall remained unbreeched, but which would be her tomb if it did not.

“It will be alright,” Boromir said, his hand on her shoulder gentle, clearly aware of how much she did not want to be locked into a cave, “when it is over, I will come and find you.” He had kissed the top of her head as she had helped him as he readied himself for battle, adjusting his borrowed armor as well as she could in a quick gesture, hoping she had done enough for him, knowing that there would not be another chance to fix anything that was not done right. He had hugged her before nudging her toward the great open mouth of the cave with a smile, “I give my word that I will be quickly back.”

Lothiriel had taken a place just inside the caves by the great doors, assuring herself that if the battle went well, she would be among the first out, and if it went ill, it would not be her concern much longer. She had said it in jest, but there was a part of her that would rather have gone into the open field beyond the stone walls and found a tree to sit in, thinking that risk more comfortable than the safer haven of the caves. Caelon climbed back in her lap, resting his long snout against her shoulder, and she thought it was almost a comfort, like a hug without arms.

She closed her eyes and pressed her face against the shaggy fur of Caelon’s shoulder and did not speak to even Lady Eowyn when she had called to her, needing trying to drown out every sound even if it was her friend’s voice. In her terror, all the sounds echoing the cave compounded, the sounds of women speaking, or babes crying and her own breathing, all pressing into her mind until she was certain that she would go quite mad. If she did not sit perfectly still, Lothiriel was certain she could grind her fingers to stubs trying to claw at the walls to get out.

When victory had come, and the doors opened, Lothiriel had all but ran from the enclosing space feeling in equal parts a sense of glee at the open air and horror at what she saw. For as long as she lived, the sights of the soldiers, dead and bloody would linger pressed just behind her eyes.

There was only one thing that she could think of to do to be useful. She tied a kerchief over her hair and followed Baldgwyn to set up medical care for the survivors and found that she was good at the work. She must have been trained in some minor capacity, as her hands moved quickly, and she made few mistakes, even with Caelon sitting by her station. As his presence having become a sort of calming influence, and as he seemed especially well behaved, Lothiriel let him stay. He seemed to comfort her patients, resting his head on their laps as she worked.

After a few hours, Caelon gave a quick bark and he ran from her side, bolting off.

“Caelon!” Lothiriel called after him, not taking her eyes off the stitches she was finishing in an old man’s forearm. She reached for a stretch of linen that to wrap her work over.

“Oh, he’ll be fine,” Baldgwyn said, “he knows to keep from under the horses. He likely just smelled a rabbit, or needs to do his- “

“That should do, father,” Lothiriel said, kindly as she finished wrapping his wound, “Now keep that clean as you can,” she helped him up before washing her hands in a basin. “I need fresh water here,” she raised her hand, so the attendants would know where to bring the water. She ran her bare forearm over her brow, damp with sweat.

“You should take a break, Your Highness,” Lady Baldgwyn said, “You need fresh eyes and rested hands.”

“Next!” Lothiriel called, drying her hands on the linen hand towel tucked into her belt.

The young man stepped toward her. He couldn’t have been much older than seventeen, and there was a glint in his eye and a cocksure smile on his face. “No!” Lothiriel called at him, pointing a finger, “Your arm is already set. Don’t let me catch you back here again, or it’s a whipping for you!”

She didn’t know if the boy understood her, he had earlier seemed to not understand Westron, but her tone seemed to get her words across to him if he didn’t know what her words meant.

He started away with a smirk before turning back and calling something to her in Rohirric, his good hand pressed to his heart.

Lothiriel looked to the nurse beside her, one of Baldgwyn’s pretty nieces, Lady Cynewara, for a translation.

“He says that if you would be his sweetheart, he would show you,” Cynewara laughed, “such joy and pleasure!”

“For about a minute, I’d dare say,” Lothiriel retorted, her hands on her hips turning back to her station, gaining her a fresh round laughter and whoops from the other ladies serving as nurses. The boy more likely than anything had meant to impress his friends by his foolhardy actions, Lothiriel thought.

Cynewara translated her words to the boy, and told him off before her words stopped short, “Westo Eomer Hal,” she said instead, her voice losing most of its mirth.

Lothiriel washed her hand again with a nervousness that she could not explain. She scrubbed at her fingers, trying to get her nails clean as she felt Caelon lean on her leg again, panting happily. “My Lord Eomer,” Lothiriel dipped quickly, hoping that he would pass her by but she was not so lucky, “I am pleased to see you returned. Are you injured at all?”

“A few scrapes and bruises, but nothing of great concern. I am certain you have more pressing cases.”

“I am tending to abrasions and sutures, my lord. Apparently, I am keen with a needle,” she looked down at her hands, the blood had barely been shifted from around her nails. She trained the gaze on the stone ground, “My skills might not extend beyond small things that might need closed and kept clean, so they do not become septic.”

Lady Baldgwyn said something in Rohirric to Lord Eomer, whatever she said was clearly teasing, for her tone her tone was light and almost sing-song.

Lord Eomer shot her one of his irritable looks which only made Lady Baldgwyn laugh and wave her hand at him, saying something else that sounded like another teasing chide.

“What do you say, My Lady?” Lothiriel asked, turning to Lady Baldgwyn, trying to keep the damaged side of her face from his view.

“Lady Baldgwyn is overly concerned with my wellbeing,” Eomer said, giving Lady Baldgwyn another look that might have been meant to scare her into silence, but which only served to make her chuckle at him again, shaking her head a little.

“You are one of the high lords of Rohan, my lord, I am sure that all of your people are concerned with your well-being.” She straightened her back, trying not to wince at the ache in her joints.

“That does it,” Baldgwyn snapped at her, “You have been long due a rest. You are not yourself done healing, and if I have to put you back together again, I’ll not be pleased. Now get on,” Baldgwyn called to one of the other ladies who had been on a break to take over Lothiriel’s station.

Lothiriel’s eyes rolled as she closed them, pulling the kerchief from her hair, and gave Lady Baldgwyn a quick curtsy, “Yes, my lady.”

“One hour,” Baldgwyn called after her, “And get something to eat while you are gone!”

“I will do,” Lothiriel gestured to Caelon, as she started away, “Come, boy.” The hound fell in step beside her.

“Why, are you not a disloyal cur,” Lord Eomer said walking behind her.

“I beg your pardon, my lord?” Lothiriel asked, rounding at the insult.

“It does not seem as though he missed me at all,” He had scratched absently at Caelon’s head.

Her face softened a small measure, “Oh, no, he just knows that I will feed him if he follows me long enough.”

“I think not,” Eomer said, looking at her with intense glint in his dark eyes, “He has clearly been turned against me in my absence. Perhaps you are some servant of the Dark Lord after all, and you have done some evil spell to steal my dog from me.”

She stared up at him, falling into step beside him, her mouth hanging open a little, “My Lord, I- “she noticed the twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Oh!” she snapped, and slapped his arm before she could think to stop herself, she smiled up at him, “Why do you seek to vex me, so?”

He almost smiled, turning his head to look at her. A shadow fell over his face, “What happened here?” he asked, reaching up to touch the fading bruise that was still visible on her cheek. He tilted her chin up to look at her square on, his thumb brushing where her lip was healing. She could not manage to meet his gaze, keeping her eyes trained down, even as her cheeks colored under his inspection.

“Well, I hope you at least gave back as well as you received,” Lord Eomer said, not yet releasing her face from that soft touch.

“At first,” she allowed, “Though after a time without food or water…” she chanced a look up, and almost immediately regretted it. What qualms had this strange lord with personal space? “My Lord?” she asked at his gaze as it skimmed over her face as if he was making a careful study.

“Perhaps I should have taken Eowyn and you with me and hidden you away.”

“Your duties were more pressing that to dwell on regrets. It is my own fault for not managing to uphold the oath I made to you,” she stopped short and cut her eyes back away from him. She had to tell him everything that had happened in his absence. She had to tell him who she was.

Lothiriel’s knees buckled as Caelon leaned against her still healing legs. Lord Eomer’s hands grasped her waist to stabilize her as she crashed against him, causing the color to climb higher in her cheeks. She shot a look at Caelon, his face composed of what Lothiriel imagined was the canine equivalent of a smile, his tongue lolling out of his mouth as he looked back at her.

“Are you alright?” Lord Eomer asked.

She nodded vehemently, “Yes, my lord,” she stepped back from him quickly pulling back from his damnable eyes and damning hands, her eyes carefully trained on the stones under her feet, beginning to walk on again a little more briskly.

“Do you blush, my lady?” Lord Eomer asked, following after her.

She could see him peering at her almost teasingly, “Oft, it would seem,” she replied, the words tumbling out of her mouth, “Though perhaps it is only of your making.”

“Do I make you so uncomfortable?”

“No, and yet sometimes, I might say that you do,” she admitted, starting up the steps to the parapet balcony of the fortress. Lord Eomer offered his hand to help her up the stairs, stepping in front of her, noting the look of confusion painting her features, “Have you not some other business that you ought to be attending to?”

“I was sent to rest, but found I could not manage it,” he spoke easily, “and I sought out my sister to be certain of her safety and did so, but I did not see you. I must have walked past you a few times without realizing it.”

“I do not know why you would look for me at all,” she clenched her hands together in front of herself, struggling to keep her eyes down, not wanting to look at him again, having already lost her will once before, “My lord… there is something I must tell you.”

His steps stopped beside her, “What is it?” In her peripheral she could see his shoulders stooping a little as if he meant to catch her gaze by his head tilting, “Has something happened?”

“I am Lothiriel, daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth,” she said carefully.

“You remembered?”

She could almost hear the smile forming in his voice and she knew that he would check it as he seemed to check every smile that he would give her. She looked out over the smoldering field, “Not so much, though I am remembering more and more. I know my name because Lord Boromir told me it,” she said, still not looking at him.

“He is your cousin, then,” Eomer’s voice was level, but there was something in his voice that sounded suddenly heavy as if he had begun to recognized what she had said, “he would be able to get word to your family that you are safe.”

“In time, yes, but getting word so far as that is at present quite difficult.”

His fingers tilted her chin up to make her look at him. He looked so confused, and there was no reason for it to be so hard to look at him, or to tell him the truth. That look silently urged her to say whatever it was that she was keeping silent. Would her family have accepted any feelings she might have had for him, even if she were free to feel such things, if she had not already had her marriage arranged for her? She thought that there was some feeling of superiority in some parts of her homeland over their neighbors to the north.

“I am betrothed to my lord cousin,” she said quietly, even as the words felt wrong on her tongue, “I am meant to be Lord Boromir’s wife.”

Lord Eomer stiffened, his hand falling away from her as if she had burned him, and the sudden change that came over his face struck her, even though there was no reason for him to look so disappointed. He had not in truth given her any indication that he had any interest in her beyond the general sort that a pretty girl with a mysterious background might expect, anything else had been a daydream she was certain of it. “I see.”

“I am glad you do, for I am not certain that I do,” she admitted, wanting to explain. More than that, she wanted to tell someone what it was she was feeling. Since speaking with Lady Eowyn she had felt more and more uncertain but had found that she did not want to hurt anyone by her own uncertainty. “I have no memory of agreeing, or of anything of the sort. I-”

“He says that you have done?” Eomer asked, his voice sounding level again, as if he had made up his mind to not question this news in the least.

“He believes that I did,” her shoulders slumped a little, seeing the losing battle.

“He is a man of honor. I do not think he would lie about something such as this.”

“I am not saying that it is a lie,” she started then fell quiet.

There did not seem to be a point to saying anything further, even as she wanted to tell him what she wanted to run. The idea of stealing a horse and disappearing had prodded at the back of her mind for days, but she had ignored it as she came to terms with the easy familiarity that she seemed to share with her cousin. There was no point to even think of it besides. She had responsibilities and expectations to live up to, and she hardly even knew what they were she could feel them on her shoulders. She could not explain any of it, but she had a feeling of dread that would not stop hanging on her.

“Then what are you saying?” Lord Eomer all but snapped at her.

She shook her head, looking away from him biting back a sigh of disappointment, “Nothing, I suppose.”

“My lady- Your Highness-” he quickly amended, before she cut him off.

“Please do not call me that,” she said before she could stop herself, somehow it felt as if everyone else could see her differently. But she could not take it from him, the strange man that did not seem to see rank or distinction in people, if he called her what she was by birth, but that which she did not feel like she was in truth, it would break her apart and put her back into a box. It would make it all real. She could feel his eyes on her, and she looked back at him, almost defiant.

“You are a princess,” his voice was almost pitying and she wanted to smack him for the tone of his voice, “born of an old line, and are to be given all deference and respect.”

She wondered if he was only upset at not being able to tease her any longer. If he would have to find someone else to make fun of and irritate, and that was the only reason that he might be disappointed at all. It must be quite a process then, she thought.

“Lothiriel!”

The sound of her lord cousin’s voice should not have grated her nerves as much as it did in that moment. It wasn’t that he grated her nerves, when she thought about it, it was that she felt as if she had been caught doing something she should not have. Boromir had done nothing to her but shown her kindness and returned to her the identity that she had lost. She loved him, but she loved him as a brother.

She smiled and curtsied as gracefully as she could manage and let him take her hand and kiss it.

“I was so worried when Lady Eowyn said she had not seen you,” Boromir smiled, his hand resting on her shoulder, a gentle weight to keep her grounded.

“Her Highness has been giving medical care to our men,” Lord Eomer said, his hands folded behind his back.

“Where are my manners, have you been introduced?” Lothiriel asked, smiling, and feeling guilty, not for anything that she had done, but instead for her thoughts.

“Yes of course!” Boromir beamed, “Lord Eomer was kind enough to lend me a horse when I was making my way to Imladris. In truth, I think if you and your men had not returned when you did none of us would be standing here. And on top of that, you saved Lothiriel, did you not?”

“I only wish that we had made better time in coming here,” Lord Eomer said, looking a little embarrassed at the praise, “You fought valiantly, my lord.”

She could not say why it felt so awkward standing between them as they spoke, praising each other on their feats of valor. “Will you excuse me? I need to find something to eat and get back to work before Lady Baldgwyn has my head.”

“Of course,” Boromir’s hand squeezed on her shoulder and she left as quickly as was polite.

Lothiriel felt jittery and needed to get back to work, to keep her hands busy, and to have something to focus on. She could feel their eyes boring into the back of her head, and it made her all the more self-conscious, though she couldn’t explain why she did feel so in the first place. She had done nothing wrong, and if she had been overly friendly it had been before, and she had not known any better, and so no one could be too upset with her. It was the truth, but it did not change her feelings at all.

0x0x0

For his part, Boromir had fought a knowing smile through the entire time that he had stood by the pair of them, looking between Lothiriel and Lord Eomer. He was not cross with her, but he also did not speak of what he saw between the pair of them. It was not that they had stared longingly in his presence, but more that neither of them looked at the other. Both had made a pointed effort to find anywhere else to train their eyes and had he been in a less charitable mood, Boromir would have teased either of them about the clear infatuations between the two young idiots.

There was something about it that made him happy, for the first time in months. It was something to do with the soft fluttering of young love, even if such a thing could be fleeting. But then, it could be something else.

He had accepted the idea of marriage to his dear lady cousin but had not been able thus far to convince himself that he had not made some mistake in deciding to do so. He felt a strange and sudden need to interfere or else to see if he might know more of what had passed in the days that Lothiriel had passed when she had not known herself. If anything would be an indication of her feelings, it would be the actions that she had undertaken when she thought herself free. Nothing could have gone very far as skittish as the pair of them seemed to be. Skittish might not have been the right word, there seemed a sense more of disappointment.

Lothiriel did not wish to marry him, he had broken off the betrothal without any hesitation. She had not said anything of it beyond vague questions, and her search for some certainty or confirmation that she had once had such a certainty. If she had already given her affections to another, even if they might not be permanent, Boromir was more than happy to help arrange something like a match for her.

He smiled a little at the thought, knowing that Aunt Ivriniel would lose her mind over such thoughts, even as she was the family meddler and attempted match-maker.

He could of course ask Lord Eomer outright as to what was happening, but thought better of it, knowing he was not likely to get a direct answer out of the new heir of the Kingdom. Lothiriel, if she was anything like she had been before would give in answer a withering look and purse her lips. So, the only solution was that he would need to find someone else that might have the answer that would not feel an overwhelming embarrassment in the questions that he meant to ask.

0x0x0

Eowyn almost jumped out of her skin as soon as Lord Boromir turned the corner.

He smiled, his hands held up, “I beg your pardon, my lady. It was not my intention to frighten you.”

“Well, you certainly have it,” Eowyn chuckled a little, her hand pressed over her still rapidly beating heart. She had not been certain why the sudden appearance of her friend’s intended had startled her as much as it had. Her nerves had been frayed for months, she knew that well enough and she likely would have been leaping at shadows had it not been so terribly important that she remain quiet and strong. She noted the sense of awkwardness that was rolling from the man’s being as if he was hesitating in some question, “Is there something that I may help you with, my lord?”

“I think you might be distinctly able to, point of fact,” Lord Boromir said carefully, “though I would ask you to employ absolute discretion for the inquiry that I would put to you.”

“I would need to know what the question was to assure such discretion.”

Lord Boromir chewed at the inside of one of his cheeks, his gaze downturned for a moment, “I had simply wondered if anything had happened between your lord brother and my cousin, if they were friendly, or…” his grey gaze pierced Eowyn through and she felt the first alarm rise in her at the look more even than the question that he had not finished.

“They seem friendly enough, my lord, but I do not think they have spent much time in each other’s company if that is what you mean to ask,” she did her best to smile, to seem helpful and to keep her guarded feeling from her voice.

“You do not think there is some affection, then, between them?”

The question furthering would have made her laugh if she did not so distrust why Lord Boromir would even be asking such things, “I can hardly say, but I have no reason to think so.”

The nod he gave was not in the least convincing, “Well, I would ask that if you should hear anything, or see anything, that you would tell me. If Lothiriel should say anything to you of this matter, I would like to know.”

“You would have me spy on her?” Eowyn asked, her voice low in her disbelief at what she was being asked to do.

“No, of course not!” Lord Boromir laughed, galling her all the more by his casual nature at this request, that he wished her to break the trust of a friend on the basis of what as far as she could see was little more than a bout of jealous paranoia. “I only speak out of concern for my young kin. I would ask Lothiriel but at present I would rather not upset her,” he looked over his shoulder a moment, “and besides, I doubt that she would tell me if there was anything. I am certain that your brother would do the same in such a situation as this.”

“Perhaps…” she said, knowing full well that Eomer would not, both of the siblings being more likely to ask and then keep asking until the other broke down from annoyance and weariness. “If you would excuse me, my lord, I have some matters yet to attend to.”

“I am sorry for having detained you,” Lord Boromir bent his head in a quick bow, and she hurried away, not certain what she ought to have made of any part of that conversation.

There were matters that required her attention, the greatest being that she needed to organize the train of supplies and people back to Edoras. She had been assured that the worst of the danger had passed for their people and by the council of Gandalf they had been told that it was safe to return home to better plan what the next course of action might be, for the night before had been only a battle and not the entire war. With admittedly more care than she normally would put into her duties, Eowyn relegated a few of the initial tasks to some of the ladies that she knew could be trusted before she went on her true mission; finding her brother and asking him what by Bema’s Beard was happening, and why she was being involved.

She all but dragged him away from his men, doing her best to contain her rage at his refusal to take her concerns seriously. _Men_ , she internally grumbled.

“What has happened with Princess Lothiriel?” Eowyn asked as soon as she was sure that no one was listening, or close enough to do.

“I am certain that I am the wrong person to ask,” Eomer replied, almost teasing, “Or has it escaped your notice that I have not been about her or you?”

Eowyn gave him a look of carefully measured exasperation, “Then there is nothing going on between the two of you?”

“Why are you asking me this?”

She knew her brother and could gauge every change in his features to know what his even voice was hiding. Yet she could not see much past the weariness of battle, seeing only a shred of irritability, “Is there?”

“No, she is betrothed, and as such I can hardly imagine why you would be asking me anything at all about her.”

“Then you do not like her?”

“She seems a nice enough person,” Eomer said, staring back at her inquisitive face, as if waiting for her to get to whatever the point was that she was trying to make.

“Then why would Lord Boromir ask me if there was some affection between the two of you?” Eowyn asked, having hoped to hold onto the winning card a little longer, in case there was some piece of information that he would let slip, either by word or by lack thereof.

“I could not think to know why he would. Did you ask him?”

“In a way,” she allowed, “he asked if she had said anything, and that if she did I ought to tell him.” She gave him a significant look waiting for him to be as offended as she had been and still was.

“Well there is nothing to tell, so it begs the question as to why I am being bullied over a non-issue.”

The strange thing was how casually Eomer was speaking about this “non-issue”. In her not so limited experience, her brother did not like rumor and speculation about himself or his personal life. She knew that he bore a good amount of respect for Lord Boromir, but this did not feel quite right to her in some way that she could not explain.

“Then you think nothing is wrong with the fact that I have been asked to spy on a woman that has become my friend, and by the man she is mean to wed. That does not seem wrong to you?” she asked, wondering if she had made some mistake in her offense, but knowing that she would make no move to undo her own feelings if she had.

“I think it is no business of ours, and as I have said, there is nothing for you to tell him. Thus, you need not feel as if you have been put on the spot to do so.”

“That he asked at all is what I take issue with.”

“Just keep yourself out of it, then.”

“You do not think that perhaps the Princess ought to know that her intended asked such a thing as that of me?” Eowyn asked, shocked that her brother was not as enraged as she was. She countered her disappointment with the fact that he was likely tired, having had more important matters to handle than the ones that weighed on the minds of women. But she hoped that that was not entirely the case, that he would at least recognize that Eowyn’s concern for Princess Lothiriel was in small part a concern for herself.

Eomer pressed her shoulder, a look of sympathy painting over his features, “I know it is not what either of us would expect, but they are not of our lands. Perhaps such things are done in Gondor. Perhaps he means only to look after her, knowing that her condition is improving, but not wishing to upset her.”

“Eomer-”

“Her family has arranged her a match, and if she is displeased with it, that is a matter for her to be concerned with. It is not a matter for us to interfere in.”

It was not until she had left him to return to her work that she realized that he had said “we” rather than “you.” She tucked that knowledge away, not sure what she ought to do with it, or if it meant anything at all.

Her brother’s advice had been born of a concern for her own wellbeing, she knew, but she knew that she would dismiss it, and that she would tell Princess Lothiriel as soon as she could find a moment to do so.


	4. Chapter 4

The ride back to Edoras seemed to take less time, though Lothiriel could not decide if this was due to the lighter load of their supplies, or if it was the lighter spirits of the people. While they were far from safe, the danger seemed more distant in this moment of victory. The Eoreds seemed joyous in their victory, but ever with an eye to the horizons for further sign of trouble, but none ever came.

The custom of the Rohirric people was to feast after battle to honor their victory, and to pay tribute to their fallen comrades. The concept, while something that Lothiriel was aware of, still intrigued her, if only for she thought that their means of such celebrations might be different from the ones that she might be familiar with. She could remember balls and courtly feasts, but though she could remember the dresses and the splendor, she remembered more the sense of importance that would come with such evenings, the manners and the feeling of superiority that she might have once felt as she sat at the high table with her family.

“The men drink themselves into a stupor, then?” Lothiriel asked Lady Eowyn as the princess styled her hair, pinning a narrow braid to another, making a crown of her black hair, having twisted the rest at the back of her head in a series of braids pinned up off of the back her back. It had taken a while, but Lady Eowyn seemed eager in her work, trying to tame Lothiriel’s curly hair.

“Yes, but we may drink as well,” Lady Eowyn said, adjusting a pin against Lothiriel’s scalp with careful fingers nudging it a little so that it would not press too firming against her scalp.

“But not too much,” Lady Baldgwyn cautioned, helping another lady, one of her nieces, Freya into her dress, lacing up the back of her garment, “The effect of mead is strong, and if you are not used to it, the effects can come on quickly and hard.”

“I for one am just happy to not be forced to wear stays,” Lothiriel said smiling a little when she was freed from Lady Eowyn’s pins and combs.

“If those torture devices come into fashion here, I will become a hermit before submitting to such a garment,” Lady Freya laughed.

“But I have heard that it can enhance one’s figure,” Lady Cynewara called, pressing her hands firmly into her waist as demonstration of the effect, making her hips seem wider in comparison, and pulling a fish-like face.

“But they weaken your back!” Lady Freya retorted.

“For hips like Lady Lothiriel’s I might take a weak back,” Lady Cynewara gestured to the princess with her brush as Lothiriel moved to let Baldgwyn start on Lady Eowyn’s hair.

“Don’t be so sure,” Lothiriel said, bending over, and shifting her back a little as she stood back up, her back bones cracking and popping as she twisted her spine a little.

She looked at the sisters, their faces contorted in disgust. Lothiriel’s smile dropped, thinking she had gone too far in her comfort with the women, before the ladies started laughing at her.

“Is that the best you can do?” Lady Freya asked, pulling her skirts up to shift her foot and ankle, rotating it as the same cracking noises came from the joint, “A loom fell on my leg when I was twelve years old.”

Lady Cynewara turned her neck and shoulders, the bones creaking, “Fell from a horse two summers past.”

“Girls,” Lady Baldgwyn chided them without any anger, shaking her head at the lot of them, “Is this how you will comport yourselves?”

The sisters fell to giggling as Lady Cynewara finished off Lady Freya’s braids.

“Can I help at all? I know how to braid hair,” Lothiriel offered, feeling more than a little useless.

“No, you are our guest, sit and relax, you won’t get another chance, I daresay once the banquet starts,” Lady Freya said, “And besides our braids have meanings, Lady Faurwen, and I dare say you have no concept of them at all.”

“What do these mean, then?” Lothiriel asked, her fingertips touching her hair, smoothing over the updo with care.

“That you are a highborn lady,” Lady Freya said simply, “and that you are to be wed. Only ladies that are free of entanglement wear their hair down in public, of course.”

“Of course,” Lothiriel did her best to smile courteously, patting a hand over the back of her head. She was to be married, and as such would not be presented with the ladies of the court but would rather find her place at Lord Boromir’s side. He was her keeper already, whether they were wed or not, and would have been as the only member of her kin able to do so even if there was no betrothal.

“Did you hear that Theoden King brought back two halflings from Isengard?” Lady Freya asked suddenly, “I had thought they were little more than children’s tales, but it would seem that they are real after all.”

“Are they the same ones that Lord Aragorn and the others were seeking when they came hence?” Lothiriel asked, feeling suddenly ashamed at having spoken so, and having relegated her Lord Intended to one of “the others”.

“It would seem so,” Lady Eowyn said, turning her head back for Lady Baldgwyn’s attentions. A light pink had sprung to her cheeks at the mention of Lord Aragorn, Lothiriel noted, smiling to herself. She had suspected for a few days that Lady Eowyn liked Lord Aragorn, but she said nothing.

“Théoden King has safely returned then?” Lothiriel took a seat by Lady Freya and Lady Cynewara, watching the pair of sisters, passing the brush back and forth between them. Then Lord Eomer would have returned as well, and of course they would all have. They must have returned for there to be a banquet in the halls, as would Lord Boromir.

“Yes, earlier today,” Lady Cynewara said, watching Lothiriel as she smoothed a few stray hairs back into place.

Her hair would never content itself to do what it had been bid, Lothiriel knew, a few loose curls always decided to break formation and to free themselves from the order to which they had been painstakingly put.

“Why take such care with your appearance?” Lady Cynewara asked, “You have already trapped a husband. I should think that you would leave a few for the rest of us.”

Heat flashed in Lothiriel’s face at the teasing words, and she felt more than a little ashamed at them. She tried to think of an answer, some jab to give in retort, but felt her mouth opening and closing like an idiot.

“Enough of your teasing,” Lady Baldgwyn said, adjusting the fine embroidered wimple pinned to her hair and under her chin and the golden circlet over her brow, “There has been long enough time in common cloth, and who can say when the halls of Meduseld will be so full of light and laughter again?” she looked over the ladies in her care, “Take joy in your youth, my girls, and enjoy this night, but I will remind you once more, enjoy yourself not too much.”

Lothiriel smoothed her hands over the dark blue fabric of her dress, the garment was simple but lovely, and had loosed at the shoulders before the material tapered to fit her forearms nicely. Her hips were a little wider than Lady Eowyn’s, but her waist was trim, the hips of the dress held a little snug against her hips, but not too much to be uncomfortable, just enough that she felt womanly. When she walked, the hem of her dress shifted with her steps.

The ladies and women of the court gathered just outside of the hall, giggling and gossiping. When she glanced at the other ladies of the Meduseld court and she was struck for not the first time, by how much she stood out from them, not just for her dark hair and olive skin. They all seemed to possess the sense of casual confidence that she coveted and tried to mirror in her own actions. She might have always been putting on a show of confidence, as she became more and more certain that she had never had it in truth.

The sisters walked behind Eowyn, and she behind them, their eyes forward as they walked down the long center aisle of the hall. Lothiriel lingered at the back of the hall out of sight, looking about for Boromir. She found him toward the front of the hall, and quietly made her way along the outside aisle to his side and took her seat by him.

Lothiriel watched them each of the young ladies of the court, looking over their dresses and different styles of hair, wondering what they all meant, and if Lord Eomer would choose one of these ladies as a wife, if that was part of the reason for having them all make this short walk, or if it was a tradition created by the ladies to show off their finery. Looking over the other ladies of Meduseld, Lothiriel found her own regalia plain. Each lady wore some token of their family’s station, a sturdy broach, a circlet or a heavy golden chain. The pieces were large, but beautiful in their own way. Being a guest of the Royal Family, there meant that Lady Eowyn was unable to loan her anything to her new friend, but Lady Eowyn hadn’t even looked at her jewel box. Perhaps out of some sense of solidarity, Lady Eowyn wore no jewelry, though the front of her court dress was stitched with a fine gold thread.

Where she had felt lovely, she now felt underdressed. Lothiriel wondered absently what had happened to her own things, for she must have traveled with more than the clothes on her back. If her own clothing would have been too ostentatious, and if then she would have had a greater concern.

Later she would voice her nervousness to Lady Baldgwyn, who had clicked her tongue, “There’s no need to gild a lily, Your Highness.”

She made the mistake of looking to the royal family for a moment, not having kept a close enough watch on her gaze and had found Lord Eomer looking at her as well. She did her best to smile politely and look away, but still she felt the sudden weight of guilt at having liked looking at him. She was sitting beside the man that she was going to marry and had all but stared at someone else. Realistically she ought not to have thought anything of it, she had not done anything that she should be ashamed of, nothing that could ever be proved, or than anyone would ever be able to shame her over. So why did she feel guilty?

Lady Eowyn offered up Théoden’s goblet to him, and any whispering in the hall quieted, and the men rose to their feet as Théoden King held the wide ornate goblet out, toasting the assembly.

“Tonight,” he said, “we remember those who gave their blood to defend this country. Hail, hail the victorious dead!”

“Hail!” called back the men of the halls before they drank their thanks.

Roasted meats and fresh bread were brought in and with it came the merrymaking assured by survival against deadly odds.

Lady Freya and Lady Cynewara made their way over to her, a strange shared smile on their faces making them look rather like snakes, some mischief clearly having been planned and decided before they started on their walk to Lothiriel.

“Would you mind terribly if we borrowed Her Highness for a while?” Lady Cynewara asked when they rose from their quick curtsies, pointing the question to Lord Boromir.

“Of course,” his hand on her shoulder was brotherly, and he smiled at Lothiriel, “Enjoy yourself, dear.” He pushed her gently along after the ladies.

She gave a quick look back, almost nervous that she might make a fool of herself but was assured with a quick gesture from Boromir that she would be alright, that she should enjoy her youth, and do what she wished.

“Do you like ale, Your Highness?” Lady Cynewara asked, holding out a tankard to her, “I’m afraid we have no wine.”

“I know not,” Lothiriel said, lying baldly, though neither woman seemed to doubt her words.

“Oh, because of your memory loss?”

“I have not had much occasion to drink much ale,” she replied politely, wondering what on earth they thought she had been drinking at the suppers she had taken since she had arrived in Edoras. Maybe they thought she imagined herself above drinking ale, and that the drink of men, soldiers and workers would turn her stomach and that she had simply parched herself out of spite. She was beginning to gather the impression that these ladies’ teasing was not as well-meaning as she had initially thought, and their every word and glance seemed to confirm this suspicion. She accepted the ale, and took a drink, “Not bad, though a little bitter to my taste.”

“Perhaps, Your Highness, you would prefer mead,” Lady Freya offered as if concerned.

“Mead?”

“It is like a sweet wine, made with honey.”

“Oh, but that sound lovely!” Lothiriel said, smiling.

“Oh, doesn’t it just?” Lady Cynewara smiled, sickly sweet, “Finish that off, and I will fetch some for you.”

0x0x0

Lothiriel drank the mead, finding it strangely nice to drink, but that the sweetness of it was a bit much. But by the time she had finished the first cup of mead, the slow building warmth of the drink was beginning to settle in her stomach and in her blood, and she found that she liked it, but that if she kept drinking at the rate that the young ladies kept refilling her drinks she might not be able to walk across the hall, or at all. She cut her eyes about the room, looking for an excuse to leave politely, knowing that if the options presented to her was to slow her drinking or to leave their company in search of a separate group, she had a better chance at the latter.

She chuckled appreciatively at a remark that she was certain was scathing about another of the young ladies in attendance, not listening but guessing from the tone of voice that Lady Freya had implemented that the sisters were of the opinion that the lady in question thought too highly of herself.

Options for escape currently included to her trained eye, the drinking competition that seemed to be occurring between Lord Legolas and Lord Gimli, a dice game that Eothain and a few of the other riders that she had met in passing seemed engaged in or trying to find Lady Eowyn. The drinking contest was out as Lord Eomer seemed to be serving as a referee, and she did not trust herself around that irritating man with as much alcohol as she had so far consumed, and she assumed that wandering aimlessly though the hall looking for her friend would likely not be entirely appropriate.

The dice game it was then, she thought, and began to make her apologies trying to pardon herself before she heard one of the players break into what sounded like a bawdy song. _Damn_ , she took another pull of mead, and was fully prepared to settle into oblivion when she felt the hand on her arm.

They all three curtsied politely to Lady Eowyn who smiled and took Lothiriel’s arm, “There is someone I would like to introduce you to, Your Highness.”

“Of course, will you ladies pardon me,” Lothiriel did not wait for an answer and followed after Lady Eowyn, “Ai, thank the Valar, I have been trying to find a way out of that for the last ten minutes, but I know hardly enough of the people here to be able to make a convincing exit. I do believe that they mean to get me quite intoxicated.”

“And it would seem that they have been making progress on that endeavor,” Lady Eowyn smirked.

“Well, it is a celebration,” Lothiriel smiled back, “Who is it you mean to introduce me to?”

“No one, but I would keep clear of those to two as long as you can manage it,” Lady Eowyn’s eyes scanned over the hall, “Where is Lord Boromir?”

“Who can say?” Lothiriel smiled back, a little amused by the look of dismay on her friend’s face, “I am not his mother. I am certain he can handle whatever mischief he is in.”

“Well then you might…” Eowyn started, but she fell quiet suddenly, “do not be cross with me?”

“Why would I be?”

Lady Eowyn grimaced and beat a trail over to her brother, Lothiriel doing her best to pull loose of the grasp that was firmly on her arm.

“You are much stronger than you look,” Lothiriel said, still squirming.

“I know it.”

Lothiriel dug her heels in, “Wait, stop. Why would I be cross with you for… what on earth are you talking about?”

Lady Eowyn rounded, a strange look on her face as she stopped in her steps, “Has Lord Boromir spoken to you about…”

“About?”

The slim lady took a breath, “He suspects that you have some feelings for my brother.”

“Where would he get such a notion as that?” Lothiriel asked, doing her best to laugh, “I mean to say, and I hope you take no offence, but your brother is a grim and irritating oaf.”

“Oh…” Lady Eowyn said, looking quickly around, “Well I will certainly keep that opinion to myself.”

“Do with it what you will, I care not,” Lothiriel chuckled taking another drink.

“Lord Boromir asked that I inform him if there was anything said that might make one think that his suspicion was true.”

“And what have I said that would indicate that sort of thing at all?”

The look that Lady Eowyn gave was strangely assured in a way that seemed to broker no further response.

“What?” Lothiriel asked.

“Then if there is no sense of infatuation, then go speak with my brother,” Lady Eowyn smirked, “It would certainly keep those vipers off of your back, for they find him as grim as you claim to.”

Lothiriel felt the blood in her cheeks and in her ears heat even further than the mead had done, “Why would I want to talk to someone I do not like?”

“I knew it,” at least Lady Eowyn had the kindness of spirit not to gloat or to be smug, “You like Eomer.”

“Keep your voice down, I beg you. I am quite certain I do not need a scandal at present, and this would almost certainly constitute a scandal,” Lothiriel said in a low voice, “Especially as it does not matter in the least.”

“Why does it not?” Lady Eowyn stepped closer, letting Lothiriel look over her shoulder, the both of them covering each other’s backs to be certain that no one overheard them or approached them. “You do not want to marry Lord Boromir, so there is no reason to do so.”

“His father is the Steward of Gondor. I think that he arranged the marriage, and my lord uncle is not the sort of person that people can very easily say no to,” Lothiriel said, her voice taking a fearful tone, her eyes widening a little, “Even if my lord cousin does not agree with the arrangement, which he has not said that he… even Lord Denethor’s favorite son does not speak out of turn.” She was staring back at Eowyn, doing her best to keep her voice even.

“There must be something that can be done. I mean… he asked me to spy on you.”

Lothiriel waved a hand at the concern, “Oh, I would bare it no mind.”

“Bare it no mind? Lothiriel he-”

“There is nothing to tell him, you and I have already agreed so. And besides, that is simply what husbands do,” Lothiriel said rolling her eyes, “and wives too I would hazard, no one ever says what it is that they mean or feel, so how else are we meant to know?”

“You must absolutely hear how mad that sounds, now that you have heard it out loud,” Lady Eowyn said slowly, “Why would you marry a person that you cannot trust?”

“Welcome to the positively miserable world of arranged marriages. I think I was a spy for Lord Denethor before I left Minas Tirith, and I believe I was rather good at it,” Lothiriel’s smile was full of self-hatred, and she went to take another drink and found it empty, “Oh, how very disappointing.”

“You should eat something,” Lady Eowyn said, doing her best to be the voice of reason for just a moment, “at least if you meant to drink anymore.”

“A fair assessment,” Lothiriel smiled, “and as a lady of station, I will diplomatically give in to your request, silly though I may personally find it.” She let herself be led along by the hand and did her best not to wander off as Lady Eowyn mad a plate up for her. “Alright, so I must avoid the Snake Sisters, I outright refuse to speak to your brother while I am inebriated, as that would be detrimental to the diplomatic relationship between our nations, and I have no idea where my cousin is.”

“Lothiriel, you cannot possibly mean to live your entire life-”

“There is no satisfaction for women like me, not in marriage and not in life. I have a duty to my family to marry well, and I doubt I will do much better. Daydreaming about someone that barely likes me, or who expects…” Lothiriel looked away for a moment, doing her best to appear regal as she stuffed a roll into her mouth. She shrugged her shoulders, “There is nothing for it,” she said through a mouthful of bread, “but to grind down and accept everything.”

“There is something to be done, and we will sort this out,” Lady Eowyn said with a small smile, a strange look in her gaze, almost distant, “I will keep your confidence.”

“I appreciate that, now I think I will play some dice,” Lothiriel held her hands up, “dainty fingers are an advantage, I am certain of it.” She gave a quick look at Lord Eomer, “I might advise you to tell your lord brother to put money on the elf. He might make a good little purse from it.”

“Why?”

“Because I doubt anyone else will know that elves of the Woodland realm are almost legend in their love of wine and festivity,” Lothiriel’s smile was catlike, and she gave a quick curtsy and meandered on her staggering way to the table, a plate of food in one hand and an empty cup in the other, “Would one of you gentlemen be kind enough to refill my cup?”

0x0x0

From his vantage point, Boromir could see everything that Lothiriel did, and she seemed almost as if she was herself. He had watched her through her entire life from a toddler and had been disappointed in the way that she had come back from her finishing school, seeming more like a vicious and calculating courtier that the wild little girl that had tagged along after him and insisted in being included in whatever mischief her brothers and cousins were getting into.

There was something about the low voices and the careful looks that Lothiriel and Lady Eowyn were giving. They were perhaps closer than they ought to be, and he smiled as they watched each other’s backs as they spoke. Perhaps they should be employed as spies after all, they would both be rather good at it. If he had to guess, he would have thought that they both had enough coiled rage inside of them to tear the entire world apart.

There was something in the sharp adjustment of Lothiriel’s shoulders that he knew as well as he knew that if his own brother rubbed that space between his eyes that Faramir had been squinting over his books for hours, or that Amrothos was going to say something stupid by the calculated look that his smile took on. Lothiriel was going to do something stupid, and he knew full well as soon as she joined the dice game that she might embarrass herself or else win some money.

She could hardly throw a dice game, being entirely a game of chance. He knew not to say anything about how much he knew. He knew that Lothiriel had snuck out after her brothers, likely drawn by curiosity to see what it was that they were up to. But she had learned to turn card games and to throw odds in betting games of skill. She would always lose the first bought and then ask for a chance to win her money back and take double the bets. 

He moved through the hall, leaving the companions that thus far had been his drinking mates to look in on Lothiriel, having failed in catching Lady Eowyn’s attention. The White Lady seemed to be actively avoiding him for some reason. Perhaps she did not think he should be interfering in her brother’s personal life, which was admittedly understandable.

“What are you up to?” Aragorn asked as Boromir made his slow way over to his cousin.

“Nothing at all,” he did his best to arrange his face in a way that might be seen as innocent. He wondered if he might be able to devise a way to stage direct her actions.

“Oh, no,” Lothiriel smiled through her disappointment at the dice faces, “So I have to sing for another chance or else drink and forfeit?” she asked as if she had never heard such rules before, and wanted to be certain that she was following the instructions that had been explained to her.

“You might do better to drink,” Boromir teased, settling in across from her, “I doubt such a refined young lady as my cousin would know any songs that would engage this rabble.”

There was a low round of chuckles, and Grimdig, an old grizzled rider reached for the dice, deciding it was a forgone conclusion that she would drink.

Lothiriel rested her hand over his, a cat-like smile on her face before she let out a low note, and quickly rushed through a few verses about a young boy’s attempts at sneaking into a bawdy house through varying schemes and disguises, but consistently failing until his mother came to drag him home by the ear. By the time she was finished, she was red in the face with embarrassment, but she snatched the dice up with relish, and threw them again.

“Why, if I did not know better, I would think you were able to cheat somehow,” Grimdig laughed at the princess.

“Oh, I never would!” Lothiriel swore, “Besides, I cannot guess how one could cheat at dice.”

Boromir leaned over the space to her and said in Sindarin, “by thumping the underside of the table while the dice are not fully landed, perhaps.”

She swatted at him and scolded him in kind, “You stay out if it,” she counted her winnings, and slid a few silver coins back into the pot, “I would roll again, by your leave, sir.”

Grimdig nodded, and there was the quick glint of greed in his eyes as tossed another coin in before he rolled the dice again, and they counted out ten points.

Boromir moved his leg quickly to counter Lothiriel’s movement under the table, and she winced at the four she rolled. She threw a hand up and did not gripe at the loss save the quick look she shot Boromir. For a moment he thought that she would like to strike him over the head but knew better than to start a brawl in such company.

There was a running jest that it was no gathering of their kin without someone in their generation starting some minor skirmish with their kin. Usually it was a few swats or a kick, but there had been a few instances that had led to silent embarrassment for their parents and either Boromir or Elphir doing the best to separate whoever had engaged in the petty brawls of family matters. When she was young, Lothiriel had once hurled a knife at Amrothos’ head and almost hit him, and they had not spoken for a few days after that.

“There is a game they play in Dol Amroth, and if I understand it right, you try to bounce a coin from the tabletop into a cup. If you get the coin in, you win, and your opponent must then drink, and if you do not manage it, you drink,” she said with a small smile.

“Can you play it for money?” one of the older men asked.

“Oh, I dare say you can play any game for money,” Lothiriel said as if she had hardly ever considered it until that moment.

“Well, I should think you would not play at it presently,” Boromir said, smiling at his cousin.

“Oh, I might. Why should I not?”

“Because I know that you are quite capable in winning that game. You might have forgotten, but I doubt your muscles have,” Boromir shifted his leg in anticipation of the kick she would give him.

“Well, damn, I suppose I am out of the games, then?” Lothiriel asked, as if she had forgotten, and no one thought to question her, “I must have been quite the gambler, then.”

“It would only be fair,” Eothain said, smirking a little at Lothiriel.

For a moment Boromir wondered if the lot of them had known what she was up to in the first place. The counter was of course that at a glance he could tell that at least two of the men were well on their way into the sack and would not hold their opinions quietly if there was some suspicion that she was cheating any of them of their money. He took a slow look over the gaming men and guessed that his lady cousin had managed to make something like friends of them, making quick jokes that might be considered indelicate, but which were indeed funny.

Boromir settled into the easy and familiar company that seemed to have sprouted around Lothiriel as she traded quick barbs and teasing retorts with the men. It was almost comfortable, as if they were at home, and perhaps that was why he had continued drinking past what might have been deemed wise.

“What made you want to marry Lord Boromir?” was the question that brought him back to his senses, in what capacity he was able to. He was not entirely certain who had asked it, but he looked at Lothiriel, almost ready to laugh.

“My father arranged the match,” he admitted, feeling the words leave his mouth with a little too much speed, “For my part, I was surprised my lord uncle agreed at all.”

“As if he had a choice,” Lothiriel replied, smirking in a self-deprecating way, “The Steward asked it be done, and we all must dance to whatever tune he decides upon.”

0x0x0

The laughter had quieted almost as soon as the row had started in earnest. At first it had the tone of an argument that had been passed around a family’s table for years, with no true tension behind it. Boromir had even waved a hand at her, clicking his tongue in disbelief. Lothiriel stared back at him, aghast at his dismissal of whatever it was that she was saying.

They had fallen into the form of Sindarin that was the common tongue in their homeland, their voices growing more and more stern as they spoke, until Boromir stood, the bench on which he had sat almost toppling from the sudden movement, his chest heaving. An almost cruel smirk came over Lothiriel’s face and her voice turned almost sing-song in its taunting, disregarding Boromir’s rage which seemed more to be born of a deep sense of discomfort. She did not so much as flinch when Boromir pulled his hand back as if he meant to strike her, and stopped short as if realizing what he had done, and looked crestfallen at his action, letting his hand fall, held up to her, and said something that sounded like an apology.

Anyone that had not been trying to listen that had still spoken had fallen silent and stared at them.

Eomer started forward, stopped by his sister’s hand on her arm, and a quick look passed between them.

“I thought it was none of our business,” Eowyn said, her smile was more than a little smug.

Lothiriel stood slowly, continuing to stare at him, her eyes widening at him, watching his hand fall back to his side. She looked as though given the ability to summon a host to her call she would have her cousin gutted without a second thought.

It sounded as though Boromir was making his apologies a little more urgently, begging her forgiveness. His words seemed to be cut short as her little hand reached slowly out and snatched the front of his tunic and pulling him toward her. She leaned by his ear, and whispered something, through gritted teeth before releasing him, and walked gracefully from the table as if no one was looking at her at all.

Boromir sunk back onto the bench, looking to all the world like a man that had looked into the very face of death, even if the face was that of a small young woman.

“What did she say?” asked Deor, fighting back a chuckle of regard at the firmness that the little princess had displayed, and the genuine fear on the old soldier’s face.

“I fear for my very life,” Boromir said, his voice low.

“For what reason? Has she made some threat to your life?”

He only let out a little grunt in answer.

“Well?” Eothain asked, pressing.

“She said that she hoped that I had learned well in my time with an elf and a wizard, and that I should have learned to sleep with my eyes open,” Lord Boromir looked about him, far too aware of his drunkenness and that he was in the company of far too many people to react beyond what foolish action he had already committed.

Even from where he stood, Eomer could see the regret burned into his face, and leaning back, Eomer watched, feeling as if his own will was split in two parts. There was of course his natural reaction which was to tell Lord Boromir to make peace with his intended, to offer her his apologies and to comfort her, but that natural reaction that by good sense he should act galled him more than a little. If he was asked, and no one would ask him, he would not be able to give a reason that he had wanted to involve himself in what quarrels happened between Lord Boromir and Princess Lothiriel.

It was not his concern, and yet he felt as offended by the momentary slip of rage as if it had been against his own family, as if he had any claim to be offended on the Princess’ behalf. He did know her, not in any meaningful way beyond a few moments and hardly any conversation, and an irritating attraction to her person. The few times that they had spoken, he had felt more comforted that he had in months, and as if she could see through him, and every wall he had carefully put up in front of himself. There was something about the way that she would take a moment and think before she answered him as if she actually heard what it was he said, and was considering what he meant, and it made him want to be near her, but he could not.

He could feel his sister standing beside him, looking at him, and he decided that he was not going to ask what that look meant, or what it was she thought. He kept his gaze fixed in a nondescript direction, not wanting to look after the princess, even as much as he wanted to look at her. He was not going to ask what that smug look on Eowyn’s face was, he simply was not. He was certain that if he asked it would only lead to trouble, and he had enough troubles at present without taking any more on. No, he was not going to ask, but rather ignore her.

“What?” he asked, finally breaking after a few moments that felt like an eon.

“Well go on then,” Eowyn said, all but laughing at him.

He scoffed, crossing his arms.

“You are going to end up following after her anyhow, so I decided that I would cut out the long turmoil of you debating and deciding.”

“Oh yes, let me just go comfort a woman who is as good as another man’s wife,” Eomer shot her a look, “what an excellent idea that would be.”

“It would hardly be the first time.”

“Because of the love I bear you as my sister, I will choose to ignore that comment.”

“Do what you like with it, but do not pretend that you do not like her.”

He had forgotten how annoying his sister had been, and now he wondered how it was he had forgotten it. “She seems a kind enough lady.”

Eowyn smirked at him, “and pretty besides.”

Beautiful, really, and fierce but there was still the matter of her pending marriage. Perhaps that would ever be the way of it, as Eomer had found himself in this position before and found that he liked it all the less in its repetition. Perhaps he would do better to let his uncle make him a match and put an end to his own intention to choose. It seemed that he was not fated to be able to engender a sense of genuine affection between himself and any free woman. Or else he had left it too long and would simply die alone. That might not be so terrible, he allowed attempting to make peace with the probability of his loneliness.

“I know not where your thoughts take you, but I would advise you not to give into whatever dismal self-pity you are considering so carefully,” Eowyn teased, pausing a moment to think, “And besides, would it change your decision if you knew that she likes you?”

Eomer’s eyes shot to Eowyn at once, “I would take little stock in whatever teasing you would think of.”

“I only speak truly, and from what she has said to me.”

“Then you should keep her confidences, since you seem such bosom companions as to be told such things,” Eomer replied, checking himself and his hopes.

His sister rolled her eyes at him before her eyes widened, “Oh, damn it all,” she looked back at Eomer, “I am going, or else I will likely say something I ought not to.”

“No, do not leave,” Eomer whispered, growling the plea out after her, “Eowyn, come back.”

Lord Boromir approached, all but staggering, the smile on his face full of a pleading placation, “My friend, Lord Eomer, perhaps you may be of some help to me.”

Damn it all, indeed, why was he going to be dragged into the middle of something he decidedly wanted to stay far away from? Eomer wondered for a moment if it was too late to decide to become a hermit, and to live in a hut in some far reach of the country where no one would find him.


	5. Chapter 5

“My cousin is upset,” Lord Boromir shifted a little, wobbling on his feet as he stood almost whining, “and I am fairly certain that if I go to speak with her, I may not return alive.” His serious face broke into a grin, a laugh leaving him as if his own words were the funniest thing that he had ever heard. He pressed a hand against Eomer’s shoulder, supporting himself.

Shooting a quick look at the hand, Eomer bit hard on his back teeth not to recoil, or else remove the offending appendage by force, “I do not think it is so bad as that.”

“Then, you do not know Lotty,” Boromir said conspiratorially, “I fear her wrath over that of the Dark Lord. For all her sweetness, she would carry my head on a pike without a second thought, angry as she presently is,” he went on as if these words were a recommendation of her in some way, “So I would of course be in your service if you might intervene and save me from such a gruesome end.”

“I would not dare to-”

“ _You_ would be perfectly safe, I assure you. She likes you well enough,” Boromir waved a hand, dismissing whatever reason that Lord Eomer would offer to extricate himself from this family matter.

“I do not fear for my own safety,” Eomer almost hissed back, “I only doubt that it would be entirely appropriate-”

“How hard is it to comfort a distraught woman?” There was a strange look on the older lord’s face, almost coy, “Besides, she is a pretty little thing, and if perhaps, you thought to take some interest her, I would hardly interfere.”

The sudden rage that gripped him made Eomer freeze in his place, looking at the man in front of him, wondering if this sort of practice of sharing women was common in Gondor. The idea of it was repulsive, as if Lord Boromir meant to make a gift of Lothiriel to him in exchange for saving his neck, as if she would certainly go along with whatever it was that Boromir told her to do. Eomer’s eyes picked out his sister from where she had fallen in, pretending to be deep in conversation with a few other ladies.

Eowyn’s brow furrowed at the look of irritability that Eomer shot her, asking without words what was happening, and what was being said, but she made no move to save him from this predicament.

He tore his gaze away from his sister, his hands clenching into fists behind his back looking back into Lord Boromir’s smirking face, not certain what he ought to say to him, his own instinct being to knock him to the ground.

Lord Boromir’s face softened a little, “I love my cousin. I only want her to be happy.”

Part of Eomer wanted to believe him, but he still felt a suffocating rage looking at the drunken fool staring at him. Lord Boromir was due respect, by status and age and his actions on the field of battle, but for a moment Eomer seriously considered beating Lord Boromir into a pulp. It might serve to relieve some of the tension the Eomer had been feeling coiled inside of his chest for some time, “Fine, I will go calm the princess, but after that, she is your problem.”

0x0x0

Watching Lord Eomer go, Lord Boromir straightened a little, no longer staggering or seeming quite as inebriated as he had only a moment before. He smiled in a self-satisfied way and went to lean at the door of the hall, certain that his quickly made plan would certainly work out well. Sometimes opportunities presented themselves, and it would foolish not to take them.

He hummed contentedly to himself, ready to begin wedding plans as soon as he was certain that all had worked itself out. The flower arrangements might be the most difficult, but then the season of the nuptials would certainly play some part in that aspect. He personally though peonies would be the best option, but they were so delicate…

0x0x0

Lothiriel was crying, and he had the time, but not the right to comfort her as he would have if she were free, no matter what her drunken buffoon of a betrothed seemed to think. Eomer wished that he had the backbone to tell Lord Boromir to sort his own messes out and to leave other people out of it. He was still not entirely certain why he was given this charge or why he had accepted it beyond wishing Lord Boromir would stop talking to him. It was not that he personally disliked Lord Boromir, in fact they had until this point gotten along well, but the man seemed unable or willing to hold his drink.

The moment Lothiriel looked up at him, he knew he would risk the dishonor of holding her, even if she was to marry his friend and brother-at-arms, his own feeling of irritation perhaps playing some small part in that. For a moment as he looked at her, she was not a princess from a highborn and important family, she was just a girl, scared, alone, and likely thinking that the whole world was out to get her. Anyone that would not comfort her did not deserve her.

His hand was gentle on her shoulder, and she rested her head against his chest, her arms winding around him as if he had saved her from drowning. She gave herself into him embrace so suddenly that it startled him. He was not certain that he had expected her to accept his embrace at all, let alone so quickly, rather he had expected her to tell him to leave her alone, and that he would be able to go back to Lord Boromir and say that he had at least tried and then he would be able to beat a hasty retreat.

He smoothed the back of his fingers over a cheek, murmuring to her that it would be alright, resting his cheek against the top of her head before he could think to stop himself, weakened at the sound of her quiet sobbing.

“I should not have goaded him, I know, but I could not stop myself,” she said her voice crackling with shame, “I always speak too freely and then make a mess of everything.”

There was no assurance that he could give in answer to her certainty of her own shortcomings. He could hardly tell her that either she or her lord could have stopped their voices, but having not understood their argument, he could hardly be certain that she had not said something so witheringly hurtful to garner the reaction that she had gotten from Lord Boromir. But then, Lord Boromir was the elder of the two and ought to have the sense not to rise to the bait of a young lady’s taunting, no matter what she had said.

Lacking the words, Eomer smoothed his hand over her back, knowing that if anyone saw them… he was not certain what would happen if anyone saw them, but none of the possibilities would be pleasant, he was certain at least of that. Lord Boromir would be well within his rights to call Eomer out at dawn to satisfy his honor.

Lothiriel laughed suddenly, her voice still a little heavy from crying, she swatted his arm playfully, wiping her eyes quickly on the back of her hand, “I look a fright, I am certain.”

He tilted her chin up to look at him, his lips quirked a little, almost smiling as he looked her over. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her cheeks were streaked with tears, but he shook his head, “No, not at all,” He wiped dry a few tears and stroked a few loose curls back from her face, tucking a few of them back over her ear and faltered as her cheek turned into his hand, prolonging the touch, her pale eyes sliding closed.

Lothiriel’s hand caught his, squeezing his hand, and holding it there against her face. Her skin was so soft and warm under his hand, no doubt the warmer for her state of irritation and for her drinking. He smoothed his thumb gently over her skin, relishing the soft give of the flesh. A quick fire kindled in the pit of his stomach in that brief moment, and he wanted her with a sudden intensity that he needed desperately to squash out.

She looked back up at him, suddenly as if realizing what she had done, and for a moment looked petrified by the impropriety, until that look changed to a hard and resolute decision that lit behind her eyes. She turned her face up to him, her lips parted just a little. He could almost swear that he felt her heart beating rapidly as she looked up at him, begging him to stay with her with that look.

He leaned close to her, and he felt her breath coming in slow puffs over his cheeks, his hand shifting to cradle her head to pull her up to him. Lothiriel’s eyes slid closed as he lowered his face to hers, overcome by the need that had been there for a week, but he stopped short.

He sprang back from her, horrified at what he had almost done. He could tell himself that they were friends, and that he had embraced her because they were friends, and because she was upset. But to kiss her, this lady, this princess was not something he could explain away, even if no one saw, he would know, and that guilt would eat at him until he was forced to confess it. He might already have to do so.

Her eyes snapped open at his withdrawal, and the look on his face as he stared at her, “Do you not like me, then?”

“My feelings are not… You are not free to ask such things of me.”

“I doubt I ever have been,” her voice was small, and she looked as if she would begin crying all over again, “If it matters at all, I do not want to marry him.”

“Then you ought not to have agreed to it, then.”

“I do not know that I did. I have not been able to remember any such thing, but I remember asking if anything else might be done.”

“It hardly matters, if such a contract has been made, it has been, and any disagreement you have to it, you might take up with your family, rather than-”

“Will you but listen to me?” she asked, begging, “What do you lose in letting me speak?”

“Then say your piece,” he crossed his arms over his chest, staring her down.

Lothiriel’s shoulders slumped, “I do not have hardly any control of my own life, do you not understand that? If a match has been made for me, it has hardly been done with any care for my own feelings of it,” The words made a weak excuse, she knew when she heard them aloud.

“Arranged marriages are common in Gondor, are they not?” Eomer asked, "I did not realize that such a thing would be so terrible to someone that has grown up with an expectation of it."

She stared at him, looking so defeated, she couldn’t say it. She couldn’t make herself tell him why she was so afraid, “Then you would have me make peace with it? Would you have me bow to a marriage I do not want, with a man who is not only close in kinship, and like a brother to me, but almost twice my age?”

“I would have you not ask my opinion when it comes to matters that are not my business,” he said, his voice stern, and making it clear that he would have no further part in this conversation, or in her.

“Even if I might be coming to care for someone else?” her voice was small.

“That is no concern of mine,” Eomer took another step back from her, his hands clasped behind his back, “and I am sorry for any part I have played in your dismay. It was not my intention to confuse you.”

She said nothing further. She squared her shoulders and pushed past him back into the hall. There was alcohol, and perhaps if she drank enough of it, she could get to sleep. Things might seem better in the morning.

Why was she crying over a good marriage that would give her a comfortable life? They were in the middle of a war. There were women crying for husbands and sons that would never come back, and she was sobbing over the certainty of luxury. Yes sometimes her Lord uncle drank too much and petted at her, and had in the past made her into his spy, and she would be forced to live the rest of her life in a court with men that had taken opportunities of standing by her or dancing with her to touch her in ways that she did not like, but her cage would be beautiful, and full of privileges most people could hardly imagine.

What had she expected, besides? Lord Eomer was an honorable man, and he was right. Her plight, stupid as it was, was not his concern to remedy or break. But she had wanted to kiss him, and maybe she had thought that if she kissed him, just once, that she could face the rest of her life with the memory that just once she had taken something for herself. More likely she would have kept it a secret and would have been ashamed.

Reentering the hall, she all but ran into Boromir who for his part appeared conspicuously calm for a moment, save the startled look on his face. He looked her over a moment, and she wondered what that look was for.

“Cousin,” she said, her voice frosty.

“I, uh…” Boromir stammered, looking at his feet then back up at her, before flinging his arms around her, “I am so sorry.”

She stared into the general space in front of her face without registering anything beyond the fact that her very drunk cousin was also very heavy. “There, there. It will be alright,” she said, giving him the least enthusiastic pat on the back that she could muster. She should feel sympathy for him, and in a way she did. This whole mess was mostly of her making anyway. She patted his back a little more gently, doing her best not to make a face when she realized that Boromir might actually be crying.

He was a sentimental drunk, she realized as if she had remembered it from her own experiences. Had there not been a time where he had dropped a serving of desert after being too long at the wine and almost fell into a blubbering mess, or was she making that up?

0x0x0

From where Theoden King watched the entire confusing mess he smirked behind his ale. From the outside of it he could see the pieces shifting in slow and rather stupid movements. He did not miss being young and he did not miss being so unaware of what was happening around himself. He certainly did not miss the foolish confusions of young affections

“Is the whole family like this, loud and emotional, I wonder?” he asked Lord Aragorn, less of a question that he expected an answer to, and more a general assumption.

“I could not say, for my own experiences with them were long ago, and were more with the current Steward’s father and with Lord Denethor,” Lord Aragorn replied.

There was little to be done beyond letting Lord Boromir attempt at whatever hairbrained plan he was attempting to put in place. There was something about the brotherly affection that he gave his cousin that should have been a comfort but for the arranged marriage, and for whatever the plans of their shared family had been, it did not seem that either party had any interest in the arrangement.

“I do not envy Lord Boromir the task of telling the Steward that he has broken the betrothal,” Theoden said, musing aloud. Since regaining his own mind, and control of it, he had begun to think aloud. It might not be a good habit to indulge in, but he felt in part as if he was trying to get used to the sound of his own voice, and voicing his thoughts was a comfort, as he was certain that they were his own.

“I had not realized he had.”

“He either has done, or will,” Theoden predicted, “I would not wonder if…”

“If…?” Lord Aragorn for a moment looked as if he was actually interested in the minor drama unfolding.

“Nothing,” Theoden cut the thought short before he said it aloud, as the idea might be considered libelous, but he wondered if Lord Boromir was thinking of arranging some match between the princess and Eomer he might be able to avoid the Steward’s ire. Marrying Princess Lothiriel to the future King of Rohan would be a smart match politically, if the war went well. It would be a stabilizing influence perhaps and form better relations between their two countries. It would not be a terrible idea, Theoden decided after a moment’s thought.

If it was the plan, to find a way to arrange a different marriage, it was even more foolish than the alternative, which was that Lord Borormir’s poorly considered attempt at matchmaking was borne more out of a concern for Princess Lothiriel’s feelings. Of course, the Steward’s son was right, at least from what he could tell on Eomer’s part. He knew his nephew well enough to see Eomer’s interest in the princess clearly, as Theoden had eyes. And from the quick glances that the princess shot in his nephew direction, Theoden could guess that the attraction was in fact mutual.

The other concern was his niece, Theoden knew, though no one seemed to have considered that in truth. He knew that Eowyn did not trust Lord Boromir any further than she could throw him, and someone ought to keep an eye on that development more than Eowyn’s growing infatuation with Lord Aragorn. Perhaps he should assign someone to ensure Lord Boromir’s safety, in case he had not realized that Eowyn was avoiding him for his comfort as well as her own. And Eowyn seemed to be, in some part, in Princess Lothiriel’s confidence, so it could easily be assumed that she knew more of what was occurring than any of the other players.

Theoden nodded gently to himself, a small movement that could have been easily confused for a tremor, common to men of his age. He might have to involve himself at some point, speak to any of the fools in the game, but he could not decide which of them would be the most receptive to advice, or even if he ought to involve himself at all.

The mess of it all would be amusing, if any of them did not lack the ability to better communicate what they were thinking. No, if they had been born to times not so plagued by darkness, this would be the most pressing matters his niece and nephew would currently be facing. They were young, and he wished ardently that these were their only concerns, for it was right that the concerns of people of their age be of this trivial nature.

He smiled a little, remembering the months of anguish when he had not been certain that Elfhild had bore him any interest at all, and the lengths at which he had gone to make himself a nuisance, if it meant that he might pass a few moments in her company. He found a moment to keep his hold on the sweet memory of it, not wanting to let his heart ache at the absence of his wife and of their son.

Perhaps it was better that he let them sort out their own matters, he could watch from here quite comfortably as his nephew decided what he ought to do. Theoden was already more than certain of the outcome.

0x0x0

“Come along, my lord,” Lothiriel stood, deciding that Boromir needed to get himself to bed, and stop resting his head on a tabletop. She tugged on his arm.

He shook her off, “I am perfectly fine!” He grinned at her in a way that he must have assumed was charming, one of his eyes squinted shut as he tried to focus his gaze. One overbearing cousin was enough to his mind, he hardly needed there to be two of her.

“No, you are drunk, and need to go to sleep,” Lothiriel said firmly, taking a better grip on his arm.

“Me? Drunk? I never have heard such a scurrilous lie in all my days,” he said loudly, stumbling as his petite cousin dragged him off the bench, putting all of her weight into it, “You are really rather bothersome at present, are you aware of that?”

“I gathered as much,” she said, doing her best to lever him to his feet and get him walking. She had hoped that getting the forward momentum going, he might just stumble along to keep up. Her ideas, while in theory were sound, failed under the gentle scrutiny of practicality as Boromir sat on the floor, giggling to himself.

She grumbled, ignoring his drunken assurances that he was anything other than three sheets to the wind, and crouched down with her back to him, and pulled his arms over her shoulders. She stood with some effort, dragging him along and using his weight, leaned forward to move herself forward, her feet trying to catch up. The laughter of the other men in the hall should not have aggravated her as much as it did. One of the hobbits, she was not at present certain of which one, pointed at them, calling all to look at the scene unfolding, all but giggling.

“You are surprisingly strong,” Boromir laughed, “By Eru, what have they been feeding you? Have you been sparring? You must tell me your secret to such strength so that it may become legend.”

“Shut it,” she hissed back at him over her shoulder, trying not to pant for breath.

Lothiriel should have asked for help in hauling Boromir’s body back to one of the sleep rolls that had been put out in one of the Hall’s guest rooms. But she was a little too proud to admit that Boromir was as much of a weight as he was. But then, any of the laughing men could have offered to help her. If she was going to marry him, she would have someone walk him regularly to trim him down a little, especially if this was going to be a common occurrence, as her back was far from glad at the weight she bore.

She also could have let him fall asleep under a table and been done with it, but that would not be dignified. If Boromir slept on the stone floor his back would bother him in the morning and then he would be irritable, she assured herself that dragging him along did not hurt her own back as much as it did.

On further reflection, she could have set him on the bed roll more gently, but she dropped him and considered her duty done. He was hardly the only man that had passed out in the wide room thus far. Lothiriel wondered for a moment what purpose this space usually served.

He sputtered awake at the sudden shock of being on his back, “Where am I? What is happening?”

“You are in bed,” she grumbled, pulling a blanket over him, “and you are still drunk, so go to sleep.”

“I was not yet ready to sleep,” Boromir whined back, snuggling against the wool blanket that she pulled over his shoulders.

“How terribly unfortunate,” Lothiriel replied, “but as I have carried you the width of this building, I would recommend you try to… and you are snoring…” she shook her head as she stood, her back creaking a little and trying not to smile. She did not want to find any of this amusing, but in a strange way it was. There was the start of some memory that she had done this for one of her brothers once, but she could not yet be certain of which one it had been, of why a footman had not been called to handle such a matter. She wished that she could simply remember.

Her own feeling of warm inebriation had all but disappeared almost an hour before, and the idea of trying to regain it flickered in her mind for a moment, but she knew her limits, and was certain if she drank much more, she would likely be an embarrassment to herself. That last hour had been spent assuring her cousin that she bore him no feelings or betrayal or hostility, a line that had felt more and more false the longer she had to repeat it.

By the time she had dragged him away from the table, she had been certain that she would either put him to bed, or quietly stab him so that no one would notice, and she could make an escape from her responsibilities and their shared apologies for the state they had both been in.

“How is he?” Lady Eowyn asked, standing by, ready with a drink that Lothiriel knew she ought not take, but did eagerly.

“Asleep, and I doubt he will wake anytime soon, by grace,” She took a drink. Carrying a man was hard work, and so she likely deserved some manner of refreshment, “I pray that I will not need to do that again anytime soon.” She reached an absentminded hand down to scratch Caelon behind the ears. The dog was leaning on her leg again, his own hind leg kicking a little at the attentions. She smiled down at him. Everyone said he was an angry beast, but he had so far been pleasant enough to her, and she wondered if it was only because he could smell a soft touch, and that she had fed him and praised him.

“I would save your breath on that account,” Lady Eowyn smiled sympathetically, “the best determination of future behavior is past behavior.”

“I hope not, as I was quite a prig before I lost my memories,” Lothiriel chuckled, “my own past actions would likely make you hate me.”

“I doubt that I could hate you, or that you were as terrible as you think,” Lady Eowyn replied, “we are often harder on ourselves than anyone else would be.”

Lothiriel looked away for a moment, “I was a greedy little creature, hoarding secrets and gossip, I think, and I did so much to ensure my family kept the Steward’s favor without a single thought for how it might affect other people.”

“But you left your uncle’s court, did you not?”

“I did, but I suspect that it was at my father’s urging to escape the war, not out of some moral righteousness. I think he wrote to me…”

“I doubt you had much say In the way you have lived, and I should think that anything you might have done, misguided though it might have been was thusly influenced more than it was your own action.”

“You have been in a similar situation, and yet you managed to keep your own spirit and will. Though, you might simply be made of heartier stuff than I,” Lothiriel said, smiling.

Lady Eowyn grasped her hand, “I might have a solution to your troubles, but let me see if I might work out something else.”

Lothiriel’s brow quirked, “What do you mean?”

“Your marriage, I might be able to blackmail your cousin into breaking off the betrothal.”

“How on earth would you manage that?” Lothiriel asked, smirking a little. Boromir had never kept secrets well, so what on earth would be so terrible that he had kept silent, and how would Lady Eowyn know of such things?

“I would rather not say yet,” Lady Eowyn said, pressing Lothiriel’s hand in hers, “but I told you we would be able to sort something out, did I not?”

Lothiriel smiled at her friend, squeezing her hand, “I might try to take you home with me if you are not careful. I do not think I have many true friends.”

Lady Eowyn smiled, and Lothiriel felt some part of her loneliness mirrored in the lady’s face, but there was a strange flicker of irritation as she looked over Lothiriel’s shoulder a moment. She cut her eyes quickly back to Lothiriel’s smiling a little too brightly, “I have never been to Dol Amroth,” she said, clearly trying to keep Lothiriel’s attentions, “I heard that you have no winters there, and that the sun ever shines.”

“What is it now?” Lothiriel asked, not distracted by the change of topic, and turning her head before Lady Eowyn could stop her, and saw what had so irritated her friend, or at least what she could only guess it was.

She watched, her jaw tightening a little, as Lord Eomer walked from the hall with another lady, slim and blonde and beautiful clinging to his arm, and laughing. Turning back to look at Lady Eowyn, she plastered a smile in place on her face. “Well, I certainly do not envy your brother. From what little I have heard, that lady has the throne on her mind.”

Lady Eowyn tilted her head a fraction, “Then you are not upset?”

“Why should I be?” Lothiriel grinned back and she felt a knife twist in her stomach.

“I should think-” Lady Eowyn began but fell silent as someone tried to call her attention. Her face fell a fraction, “I am needed. If you wait a moment, I will be back.”

“Do not trouble yourself on my account, there is little enough cause for it,” Lothiriel smiled assuringly, “I will retire for the evening, and see you in the morning.” Turning on her heel with quick grace, Lothiriel set her now empty goblet and started back to her room, trying to smother the burning jealousy that had started in the pit of her chest. She opened the door to her room, ready to take off her dress and curl up in bed.

Caelon followed after her, his narrow face staring up at her in brief glances as they walked, his tail wagging behind him.

“Go on, now,” Lothiriel shooed at him, “You must want your own bed, sir, for I assume you are as weary of company as I.”

The dog sat, looking back at her.

“Go,” she waved her hands again, wanting to cry or else punch something, and not wanting a witness to her pain.

He whined a little and stood up, bounding a little, his paws pressing at her shoulders.

Setting him back, she gave him a gentle push, “No, go.”

Taking a few steps, he turned his face back to look at her and planted himself firmly in the middle of the corridor.

“Go,” she said again, waving a hand again as she turned back to her room. She peered back to ensure herself that he had in fact gone. The last thing she needed was another row. She loved dogs, but she could no more let him follow her into her room than any man. He had a master, and he did not seem particularly fond of her.

When she looked into the room, she froze, confused and disappointed at the crowd of sleeping women that had staked their claims already to the space. It would seem that this was a common enough thing on feast nights, far be it from her to complain about what was done with a house that was not hers, but she did feel a little put out. She wished that someone would have told her so, for she could have used it as a reason to excuse herself earlier, and at least claimed her bed.

Stepping carefully around sleeping and dozing bodies, she picked her cloak up from the hook where it hung and pulled it over her shoulders. The hall would likely be filled soon enough with sleeping people either those that lived far from the city or who did not want to make their ways to their houses, she knew, so she would simply have to find some other safe hidden place to sleep. It was not that she doubted the honor of any of the men themselves, but she did have a general sense of nervousness about that many inebriated men pressed in one place in the night.

She slipped out of the hall, with a few quick furtive glances behind to ensure that no one was watching her or following her. She pushed that anxiety down as far as she could, ignoring it, though that left her to contend with her jealous indignation, insensible as it was.

Perhaps she should take a horse and run away. It wasn’t entirely true to think that no one would miss her, but she seemed only to make things worse by her every action. She could take Leofric and ride from Edoras, go west and find some place where no one knew her, and start a new life. Maybe she would marry some kind tradesman that would love her for herself and live in a little house and live a completely unremarkable life with a garden and that would all be enough.

She had certainly had worse ideas, even just this night. What had she thought she was doing with Lord Eomer? For a moment she had practically thrown herself at him and would have ruined herself, rendering her worthless and unable to be married by the standard of her rank. What would she have done if he had kissed her? She knew what she would have been meant to do, but she knew that she would let him take her if he had wanted to. If he had pressed her up against the wall, she would not have resisted. But he hadn’t done anything, and she was a stupid girl, who felt hurt and jealous for no good reason. He had held her, but that meant nothing. They were friends, they could have been friends, but she went and ruined that like she ruined everything else she had ever touched. How could she have expected such a noble man to act so despicably as that? The consequences alone would have been… she could hardly imagine it.

“It is a little late for a walk, Your Highness,” a familiar voice called out, breaking the still night air, and the storm of her thoughts. It was like a quick light in her dark mood.

“Good evening, Sir Eothain,” she smiled politely from where he peered from the open door of what she assumed was his house.

“Where are you going at such a late hour?”

“Well, my room is full of drunks and I am heading to the stables.”

“Why?”

“I shall either find a place to sleep, or run away never to be seen again,” she laughed, feeling a little drunk again, “I will decide by the time I get there, I think.”

“Neither plan seems entirely comfortable,” Sir Eothain replied, smirking, opening the door a little wider, “Why do you not stay here? I know my house might not be as fine as the accommodations that you are used to, but it is warm, at least, and I am certain you would be more comfortable than sleeping in the hay loft.”

Her gaze shifted a little, mapping out the street around her, “Oh, I…” being invited into the house of a man that she barely knew raised every alarm in her mind. Anything could happen to her, and she might not be able to escape whatever intentions he might have. “I would not want to impose…”

“I doubt it would be any imposition,” he waved a hand, wavering a little as he waved her words aside. He looked thoughtful a moment, “but I should likely ask my wife… Wait a moment, please.”

Lothiriel stood a moment, having forgotten that she could simply keep walking, and that it might be some manner of trap, perhaps there was no wife, and it was a lie to make her feel safe. She took another step, fully prepared to run if needed.

“Waerhild says that it is our duty to offer you shelter,” Sir Eothain said, having returned with a wide smile, and Lothiriel could just make out the sounds of a child fussing a little inside.

“The night is cold, Eothain, tell her to come in,” a woman’s voice called from behind him, “or she might catch a chill, and then what will we do?”

“Enter!” Sir Eothain threw the door open dramatically before withdrawing inside, clearly as warmed through by mead as everyone else in the hall had been, “I was just telling Waerhild that I failed you terribly. I am sorry I was not more help before, but after you and your lord cousin began arguing, I left entire. I know that kith and kin are given to squabbles, but I thought you two would come to blows, and I for my part did not want to be a witness to it.”

“I suppose that is fair, I made rather a fool of myself,” Lothiriel allowed, stepping into the little house and closing the door behind her. It was a small house, but tidy and well appointed, with comfortable looking furniture and a crackling fire.

A pretty woman sat in a chair by the hearth with a babe at her breast, feeding. She looked up and smiled, “Welcome, Your Highness. I would stand but,” she shot a quick look at her child, “He is a needy little thing.”

“Our son is a strong boy,” Sir Eothain said, praising, settling into a cushioned chaise, having forgotten himself entirely. “Oh, make yourself at home, princess.”

Lothiriel settled into a chair, her back straight and her ankles crossed to one side as she looked around her at their sweet little house.

“I cannot speak to the laws of your country, but here, any man that strikes his wife is punished,” Eothain went on as if he had not heard Lothiriel’s reply.

“We are not yet married…”

“Still, you do not raise your hand to a woman.”

Lothiriel winced, “I insulted his father, and in truth that argument was of my own making. I know my cousin well enough to know what to say to hurt him.”

They sat in silence for a moment, and Lothiriel felt the shame of her every action bearing down on her. She had no right to expect that anyone would find that she had been anything other than a dreadful heel. These kind people should throw her out on her ear and she would accept it.

“What do you mean you were thinking of running off? And in the middle of the night?” Sir Eothain asked, sitting forward suddenly as if just remembering the reason he had stopped her in her path walking through the city so late into the night that she wondered if it might not be early morning yet. He looked a little like an over-protective father in that moment.

“Oh, just a moment of foolishness borne no doubt by self-pity,” Lothiriel said, startled by Eothain’s sudden words, and hoping that would be the end of it. It was a stupid hope.

“But where would you go? You do not know this land, and I doubt that you have much knowledge in the ways of survival, if you’ll pardon my saying.”

“Yes, well… I had not thought that far ahead,” Lothiriel admitted.

“I doubt it can be as bad as all that, anyway, whatever you would think to run away from.”

“Dear husband,” Waerhild said in a patient voice, wiping her son’s face and settling him to burp, “Stop badgering the poor girl.”

“Yes, dear,” Sir Eothain muttered sitting back a moment.

“Would you get some bedding for her?” Waerhild asked, smiling a little at her pouting husband as he stood and staggered from the room. “He means well,” she said, sympathetically.

“I know, I feel as if I have been rather a fool all night,” Lothiriel said in a low voice, “But I am in a strange land, and… at least I have some shreds of my memories back.”

“Is that a comfort?”

“Thus far it is, I think,” she bobbed her shoulders quickly, “but I had almost two weeks where I had to live without knowing who I am, or knowing the duties I must do, and I fear that in that time my own… I have made things difficult for myself.” Lothiriel paused, why on earth was she telling this stranger such personal things? Damn the mead, that had to be the reason.

“We all have our challenges,” Waerhild stood, holding her son carefully, “but we usually come out the other side stronger than we were before.”

Sir Eothain returned, carefully setting out some bedding on the chaise for Lothiriel looking quickly between his wife and the princess apparently aware at having interrupted a conversation, “Well… good night, Your Highness.” He bowed quickly and left the room again.

Lothiriel watched, a little amused as she saw him peer around the door and dodge back.

Waerhild rolled her eyes at her husband before giving Lothiriel a smile, “I know it is not much, but you should be comfortable.”

“Thank you, Good-wife,” Lothiriel bowed her head quickly, smiling.

“Sleep well,” Waerhild smiled, rocking her child as she went to her own bed.

Moving quietly, Lothiriel slipped the dress over her head and squirmed her arms free. She folded the dress with care and set it on the arm of the chaise before climbing under the covers. The little makeshift bed was more comfortable than she had anticipated, and she fell quickly into sleep.

0x0x0

“Where have you been?” Eowyn asked as soon as she saw her brother coming back up the steps, standing from where she had sat on the stairs and hurrying toward him.

“I was walking Lady Leowella home,” Eomer replied not in the mood for whatever Eowyn had to say.

“Is that what you did?” Eowyn crossed her arms out of irritation as much as to ward off the chill in the air.

“I am begging you for a moment of peace, sister,” Eomer groaned, pushing gently past her, “I am tired, and I want my bed. There has been more than enough of this night, as far as I am concerned.”

“Princess Lothiriel saw you leave with her.”

Eomer hesitated a moment his feet stopping on the steps, looking back at Eowyn’s furious face, “And what is that to me?”

“Perhaps nothing, if you are truly as thick as that.”

He didn’t feel proud of whatever assumption had been made, “I walked Leowella home because she was drunk, and we have known her since we were children, nothing more.”

Eowyn studied his face in the way that she did to make him uncomfortable, as if she was measuring out every one of his flaws with care so that she could hold them up in front of his face later. “You know what an idiot you are, don’t you?”

“Do not lecture me,” Eomer grumbled, starting back up the steps, “I have nothing to be ashamed of, and yet you seem to want me to feel as if I do. I have enough weight to shoulder without taking on expectations that are not my responsibility.”

“But, Lothiriel…” Eowyn’s words stopped short, knowing that to some degree Eomer had been right, and that it was not her business. But in a way it was, it simply was not her place to say anything until they could sort out the complicated situation that the princess was currently in.

“What about her?” Eomer asked, turning back again, looking at her, expectantly. When she did not answer, he went on, “She is a silly girl, with silly ideas, and now is not the time for whatever the pair of you are up to.”

“Then you do not have feelings for her, at all?” Eowyn watched him carefully in the dim light, trying to look for any change in his face that would tell her what it was that he thought.

The question was one he had been wrangling with for days, and he was as yet uncertain what the answer was. He scoffed, and turned from Eowyn, and started back up the steps. He could take a breath only as soon as he was certain that his sister was not following after him, meaning to tell him off further.

The hall was still a little full, and the loud rowdiness of the attendants was going to give him a headache if he did not get to sleep soon. He walked through the center of the hall to his bedroom, looking around for the one woman that he should not look for, but he did not see her. It was late and she had likely already gotten herself to bed. He would see her in the morning, and he cursed himself for the stupid thought as it went through his mind.


	6. Chapter 6

Boromir stared at the box, and the tree carved into the lid only served to confirm to him what it was that he looked at now. It was an old courier's case, used to carry letters of importance between the different lords of Gondor. After a moment of trepidation, he looked at Theoden King, who looked as interested at what would be in it as Boromir was before the King checked himself.

“They found this in Wormtongue’s rooms?” Boromir asked.

“Yes, but it seems that no one thought to investigate further,” Theoden King replied, folding his hands behind his back as he waited for Lord Boromir to just open the damn thing already. Was it full of state secrets? Was there man serving the same purpose that Wormtongue had in Denethor’s court working in concert with the Dark Lord? Or was there some lord that had turned from reason to take up with the Enemy? What was in the box?

Boromir lifted the lid carefully leaning back a small measure, “Huh…”

“What is it?”

With careful hands, Boromir pulled out a silk dress with silver designs threaded through out, pale blue and silver threads woven together in the fabric to look like water. The gown was made in the latest fashion of Minas Tirith, finely made and beautiful. A joke passed through his mind for a moment but decided against commenting that it was not his size, nor his color. He set it aside and pulled out a simpler day dress, lay it on top of the gown, and looked into the box and found a few letters that had shifted free when he had removed the garments. One for Theoden King, one for Lord Elrond, one for himself, and one with Lothiriel’s name on it, each letter from Prince Imrahil. After a moment of hesitation, Boromir handed Theoden King the letter, not certain what it might entail.

Breaking the swan-sigil embossed wax seal on the letter, Boromir opened it quickly and read through the page, a knot growing in his stomach with each sentence,

_“My dear nephew,_

_“I pray this letter finds you well, as if you are reading this, Lothiriel has found you. She can likely tell you only a part of the dire circumstances that led to her flight from your father’s keeping, but I assure you that I instructed her leave Minas Tirith for her own safety. As such, I hope that you will not look upon her with any malice or assumption of cowardice. Having heard no word from you these last months, I have instructed her to find you at Imladris where she might at least claim some small measure of sanctuary from this war for the time being._

_“Much has happened since you left Gondor, and I know that you have certain expectations of this family, and of Lothiriel herself, but I write to you now not as a Prince of Gondor but as a father, and as an uncle. These times are strange, and I know that this matter in the grand scheme of the world may seem terribly unimportant, but I would beg you to care for my daughter in so far as you are able, and I would further beg you to help her supplant this foolish marriage that your father has proposed._

_“I do not claim to know your mind on this matter but know that my assent in a fury at the rejection that was the wish of my daughter, and of myself. The assent was only given in desperate hope that your lord father would not cast Lothiriel out, and that if he believed such a marriage would be forthcoming that she would be safer in the capitol than she would have been here. Upon reflection, this hope for her safety and comfort has rendered me unable to sleep for its foolhardiness, and for the fact that should we lose this war there will be no safety for any of us, and that if we are able to survive, that my own inability to protect my daughter has put her in this potentially dangerous position, and a position that I am certain we can agree will not bring joy to anyone._

_“Your father has not been himself for some time, a fact that you well know, but his condition seems to be worsening, and I do not know what devices and plans he has in place, but I would beg you to keep my darling girl from bearing whatever part he thinks to have her play in them. Please safeguard her as you always have; as a sister. Should we survive the darkness that means to swallow our lands, I ask that you bring her safely home to us and that we will meet again._

_“I pray that I have acted rightly in sending her, and that she will find you, and will be safe. If all else should fail me, and should my sons die in this bloody war, it is my wish that should she stand as my only living child that she will continue our line. If all is lost, and there is no means by which such a thing may be possible, I wish that she will at least be allowed have a life._

_“I trust you with this charge, as I would trust no other, nephew._

_“With the utmost respect and sincerity, from the hand of your uncle,_

_Imrahil_

It was far from the long-winded letters he usually received from his uncle, much less formal in the introduction and the signing at the very least. And his uncle had managed to get to the point without pages of descriptions of the weather and of the current feelings and position of every member of his family. “I need to speak with my cousin,” Boromir said after a long moment of staring into space. Then there was at least one less father that would be disappointed by his decision not to take Lothiriel as his wife.

“Eowyn, will you bring Her Highness, please, as soon as she is able?” Theoden King asked, smiling a little at his niece as he looked up from the parchment in his own hands.

Lady Eowyn nodded slowly, as she made her exit, “I will find her.”

Boromir picked up the letter with Lothiriel’s name on it, and noted the seal was already broken. For a moment his hand twitched the open the carefully folded parchment, but he stopped himself. Reading another person’s correspondence was an invasion of privacy that he would not commit.

“Prince Imrahil wrote this as a letter of introduction for his daughter,” Theoden King went on, “and asked that we allow her to stay, and that we would give her safe passage for as long as she might need it on her journey.” The first part had been done already, and the second part seemed to have been attempted.

“She was to go to Imladris, to find me, and in failing that she was to stay there if allowed, to wait the war out,” Boromir said. “That was why she was riding through Rohan in the first place, it would seem. Though I cannot account for why she took the roads that she did, her way would have only been more dangerous the further west she rode if she meant to take one of the mountain paths.”

"We cannot yet account fully for her dealings in the Mark before she was found," Theoden King said, smiling a little sadly, "or what may have happened between her and..." he swallowed, still not fully able to say his son's name yet.

0x0x0

Lothiriel smiled at him, her loose curly hair tumbling around her face as she leaned down to kiss him. His arms felt right around her as their body moved together. He buried his face in her shoulder, kissing a slow trail over her golden-brown skin.

His name left her lips with sudden urgency, “Eomer… Eomer, wake up!”

He sat up, startled by his sister’s face hovering over his. Snatching the covers up to his chin, his stared back at her in horror, “What?”

“Is she here?” Eowyn asked.

“Who?” Eomer edged away from her, still half asleep and confused, “I have no idea what you are talking about!”

“Princess Lothiriel, is she here? Lord Boromir asked for her.”

“No, why would she be here?” He had been having such a lovely dream, and now he was in a waking nightmare.

“Because she is not anywhere in Meduseld that I can find,” Eowyn snapped back, looking under his bed and in the cupboards, as if hoping to find Lothiriel hiding. “And the alternatives are…” she looked back at him, “What if she ran away?”

“There are still plenty of places she could be,” Eomer said, to calm himself as much as his sister, “Let me dress and I will go looking for her. If she did run off, I will get a few riders together and bring her back.”

Alone with only the ringing of the slammed door for company, Eomer dressed quickly, not wanting to think that if the princess had run off, it might have been his fault. While he hadn’t done anything to her, but there was the nagging sense that he could have done more to calm and comfort her. He could have listened to her or told her that nothing was as dire as it seemed. She had asked him if he liked her, and he had not answered the question because he did not have one to give her, not in the way that she wanted, and not in the way that he could explain it.

Of course, he liked her, she was beautiful and smart, and her smile did something to him. His feelings had remained unchanged, and in any other circumstance would have found the questioning of them laughable, but for those hinderances that he faced. If he admitted it out loud, it would mean that he would have to voice his own disappointment, and to admit those to Princess Lothiriel would only make her own situation worse. He could not be expected to give her hope of something that could not happen.

If her hand had not already been promised, it might be different. He had wanted to kiss her since that day in the stables, perhaps even before that, but he could not. It would be better when the Gondorians went home, and he was not so constantly faced by the pair of them, already bound in compact, he assured himself so.

0x0x0

“Was she in there?” Lord Boromir asked, startled Lady Eowyn once again as she left her brother’s room. Damnable man, she thought, gritting her teeth at him for a moment before remembering herself and turning to him with a look more careful and respectful.

“No,” she said as if the very idea was ridiculous, “but I cannot find her, and I thought my brother might be able to help if…”

“If Lothiriel had run off?” Lord Boromir smiled mischievously, “and you did not think that she might be in his room?”

“Of course not!”

The look he gave her was so full of disbelief that Eowyn felt a sudden urge to strike him, “It might not have been the worst place to look,” he said.

“What are you implying?” she asked, crossed her arms over her chest.

“That my idiot cousin has a crush on your idiot brother, and that it is reciprocated after a fashion,” Lord Boromir replied as if it was as obvious as it was, “but that as they are both young and proud neither seems willing to resolve this matter.”

“My brother is not an idiot,” Eowyn replied, insulted. She could call her brother an idiot, but that was different. No one else was allowed to insult Eomer in her hearing, “And I am certain that I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Lady Eowyn, you must have noticed,” Lord Boromir said carefully, “What did you think I was asking you to help me with?”

She stared at him, “I beg your pardon?”

“Well, I thought that you might be able to help me set the two of them up…” Lord Boromir said, slowly as if trying to prompt her memories, staring back at her, “because you know your brother and I know my cousin… we spoke about this plan two days ago…”

Eowyn’s eyes widened at him, feeling her eye begin to twitch just a little as she listened to the slow progress of words.

“You must remember… I asked if you had noticed anything and told you to let me know if you did… I was there, you were there… at Helm’s Deep… after the battle…”

“ _That_ is what you were asking me to do?” Lady Eowyn demanded, her voice raising.

The door behind her opened, and she turned, doing her best to control her features and Eomer stood there, staring between them, “Everything alright here?”

“Yes, go on,” Eowyn said, “I will catch up to you in a moment.”

“Alright,” Eomer said, passing them with some hesitance, no doubt feeling the tension between Eowyn and Lord Boromir, but thinking no more of it than he had the night before, “I will check the stables.”

Eowyn watched him go and waved her hand in dismissal as he looked back over his shoulder at her to ensure that she was alright. Once she was certain he was out of hearing, Eowyn turned her face back to Lord Boromir, letting her fury show, “I thought you wanted me to spy on the princess for you!”

“Why would I want you to do that?” Lord Boromir asked, before pondering a moment, “I suppose that was what I was asking, in a way, but only in so far as I needed to have my suspicions confirmed before I moved forward with my plans.”

“And what were those plans?” Eowyn crossed her arms over her chest, waiting to hear what on earth Lord Boromir had done to help, or what he thought might be a help.

“I will be entirely honest with you they have not gone well. I sent Lord Eomer to comfort Lothiriel because I was certain that would sort the whole thing out, but for some reason he did not take the bait.”

“I am going to recommend that you stop referring to Princess Lothiriel as bait going forward.”

Lord Boromir’s mouth opened and then closed, “Lothiriel was not the bait, her emotional distress was the bait," he stared at her a moment as she glared back at him in what he interpreted as horror, "From my understanding most men see a woman that they care for in tears and would go to embrace them and then..." he gestured vaguely, "following that just sort of... fall together, in a manner of speaking." He had seen it work in the past.

“You are not good at matchmaking…” Eowyn said carefully, “especially considering that you are still betrothed to one party in your silly plan.”

“No,” Lord Boromir smiled through his confusion, “No, I broke off our betrothal days ago.”

“You did?” Eowyn’s brow raised.

“I did.”

“Did you tell Princess Lothiriel that that was the case?” Eowyn asked after a long moment, wondering if she was going to have to lead Lord Boromir through the steps of where he had failed one by one. “Because I can assure you, she has no idea.”

“Of course, I did. I told her that she would not need to marry me if she did not wish to, and clearly she does not.”

“That… is not…” Eowyn rubbed at her temples irritably, “Oh by all the Valar, this is going to be a long day…”

“What did I do wrong?”

“You did not tell Lothiriel that you were breaking the betrothal!” Eowyn snapped, “Of all the stupid, contrived… ugh!” She stared at him, “Alright, we are going to start from the ground up. Give me some time to think, and we will be able to find some solution to the mess you have made.”

“Should we not find Lothiriel first?” Boromir asked.

“Should we not focus on the war which we are fighting first?” Theoden King’s voice called from somewhere in the hall, echoing down the corridor.

They both fell silent, frozen in the quick grip of terror before they heard the King chuckling. Eowyn peered around the corner to where her uncle sat with his advisors, shaking his head and smiling. She pursed her lips and looked back at Lord Boromir, before lowering her voice, “We should speak elsewhere.”

“That is likely a wise idea,” Lord Boromir nodded following her, the pair of them doing their best to be inconspicuous as they left Meduseld.

0x0x0

Princess Lothiriel was not in the stables, nor in the market, nor any of the other places that Eomer thought. She had not taken Leofric, or any of the other horses so if she had run off, she could not have gotten far.

He banged on Eothain’s door and waited for someone to answer. Of all the stupid things for a princess to do, running away had to be at the top of that list. She had to have run away because if she had not, she might have been abducted, and in that case…

The door opening pulled Eomer from his thoughts, “Eothain, I know it is early…” It was in fact not, but after a feast, few enough people were up before noon, and Eothain did not look pleased at having been roused from his bed, “But I might need some help.”

“Alright, are you hungry? Waerhild is making eggs,” Eothain said, his voice groggy, leaning forward, “Your princess is generous, she must have bought a chicken far for all the eggs she brought back this morning.”

“She… she did what?”

Eothain shrugged, leaving the door open for his friend, noting mentally that Eomer made no comment to the teasing phrase ‘Your Princess.’ “Bought eggs. You know I do not think she gave back all the money that she cheated out of the men,” Eothain said conspiratorially, but with a smirk, “You are welcome to stay for breakfast if you wanted to talk to-”

“Then, she stayed here last night?”

Eothain looked over his shoulder a moment, “I think she meant to run away but I doubt she would have done it in truth. She seemed… I mean to say, it is none of my business, but she seemed deeply sad somehow. Is she alright?”

“How should I know?” Eomer asked, irritably, “I have to get back, but will you tell Her Highness that her Lord Intended is looking for her, please?” He turned on his heel and started back up the street.

“May I ask why?”

“I did not ask, but my sister told me to find Her Highness, and that she was wanted.”

Eothain watched him go, smirking a little after his friend.

“Is everything alright?” Lothiriel asked, coming out of the kitchen.

“Hm? Oh, yes.”

“I thought I heard something,” she said, smiling a little, wiping her hands.

“Your cousin would like you to return to Meduseld when you can.”

0x0x0

“He is coming back,” Eowyn said, “now, remember what I told you.”

“Stand here, and say nothing,” Lord Boromir repeated, nodding. “I think I can manage that.”

“You talk to Lothiriel, and I will handle my brother,” Eowyn reiterated, not entirely certain that Lord Boromir's certainty was worth much, “Just make yourself as… do not annoy him.”

Lord Boromir crossed his arms, “I am not certain that I like the way you have been speaking to me.”

“Well, there is plenty of things I have not liked about you, so keep yourself in line,” Eowyn grumbled, narrowing her eyes at Lord Boromir’s good natured smile a moment before breaking the eye contact and turning to her brother, her face the picture of concern, “Any sign of her?”

“Yes, she is safe, and she will return soon,” Eomer said, irritably, all but storming past Eowyn and Lord Boromir.

“Where are you going?” Eowyn asked, calling after him.

“Back to bed,” Eomer grumbled back over his shoulder, “if that is allowed.”

Eowyn started to follow him, but slowed her steps, and turned back, “Well, that could have gone better.”

“At least Lothiriel is safe,” Lord Boromir said, relieved, “but where is she?”

“I hope that she has not gotten into some trouble.”

“She probably has,” Lord Boromir stretched his arms up over his head, “A nap does not sound terrible…”

“No.”

“Alright then…” Lord Boromir’s arms fell back by his sides, looking perfectly content in his defeat. The wheels in his head started up again, and he peered sideways at Lady Eowyn, trying to decide if she would be a good match for Faramir. His brother would do well to have a strong wife, a helpmate that would be willing to stand up for him. First thing was first, though…

0x0x0

Lothiriel made her way slowly through the city back to the Hall, kneading her hands a little as she went. She imagined that she might be in trouble for sleeping in someone else’s house. She was going to apologize and make amends with Boromir and be as contrite as possible.

She smiled at Lady Eowyn, “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Your Highness. Where did you spend the night?”

“I was going to sleep in the stables, but Sir Eothain let me sleep in his house, really I think his wife allowed it.”

“Waerhild is a kind woman,” Lady Eowyn allowed.

“Do you know what Boromir wants with me?”

“They found something in Wormtongue’s room, and I think he meant to show you.”

“Oh…” Lothiriel smiled, taking careful measure of her friend, “are you alright?”

“Of course, why do you ask?”

“You have a strange look on your face,” Lothiriel said, “Are you plotting something?”

“What would I be plotting?” Eowyn asked, walking into the hall, and forcing Lothiriel to catch up to her.

“I can think of a few things,” Lothiriel replied, “For example, I think you mentioned blackmail, and I did not think to ask any questions, and I am positively dying to know what you mean by that.”

“What?” Eowyn looked startled, “Oh, nothing yet…”

It was a strange reply but Lothiriel was not able to ask any questions, walking into the hall behind Lady Eowyn.

She curtsied quickly to Theoden King and Boromir, “I am sorry for my absence.”

“I am glad you are safe,” Boromir said, dismissing her apologies without thought, and holding a folded piece of parchment to her, “Read this.”

She frowned and took the letter reading through it quickly. “I do not understand, it is banal… family gossip and news.”

“What does it say?”

“Um,” she paused to read it through again, “Gadrien thought she was with child, but was not…” she looked at Boromir quizzically at the name.

“Your eldest brother’s wife,” Boromir said quickly.

“Amrothos had a cold, and Erchirion might have tried for a marriage, but no one is certain because it seems that he was concerned that no one would approve,” she paused, “’That is certainly an interesting development, indeed.’”

Boromir’s eyes widened, “Then…”

“My father must have been concerned that someone was reading my letters,” she said suddenly.

“Especially if he thought he would need to code his meaning,” Boromir held his hand out to take the letter back, as if to check the words. “Sure enough.”

Theoden King looked between the cousins, hiding his confusion to the best of his ability.

“It is a phrase we use whenever we find ourselves in any predicament that we do not want to be in,” Lothiriel explained, feeling a little foolish as she said it, “Usually in social situations, to alert someone that we want rescuing.”

“I see,” Theoden King replied, smiling a little at the pretenses.

“But then how would he have gotten these other letters to you, or told you what the plan was?” Boromir asked.

She took the page back and looked around a moment before finding a candle. She held the page over the flame for a moment before the words appeared, “Lemon juice,” she smiled, and held the page out to Boromir, showing him the back where there was a short message, “ _Package coming. Find your cousin in Imladris. If you do not find him, stay there and await further instruction.”_

“I never get secret messages from uncle,” Boromir teased, holding his own letter over the little flame, and shaking his head at the lack of reaction on the page.

“As if you would know it,” Lothiriel smirked back, “My lord father sent a few dresses to me that had a map and these letter in their packaging,” she remembered, smiling to herself.

“That sounds like Auntie’s work, if I ever heard of it.”

Lothiriel shook her head, and dug through the box, and took out a few ceramic portrait discs. She traced a fingertip over the faces of her family members as she took them from the box. A piece of blue velvet caught her eye and she pulled it from where it sat, and as she held the carefully bundled fabric, she felt a tingle go down her spine.

“What is that?” Boromir asked, his voice sounding as if he knew what she held and was more than a little mortified by it.

She took the diadem out of its velvet, looking at the silver stephane tiara, the pearls along the trim of the diadem catching the light.

“You traveled with the diadem?!” Boromir asked, his voice raising in panic.

“It is by right my own,” Lothiriel said, “if I was fleeing war, I was not going to leave something this important in danger!”

“Thank the Valar that Wormtongue was working in such close concert with Saruman, or it would have been lost!”

She shot him a look, “I know.”

Boromir ran a hand over his face, “Alright, so your things are returned, you are safe… what else was there…?”

Lothiriel looked around the hall, not certain if she should expect a lecture or not.

“Oh, yes, there was a personal matter that I wanted to discuss,” Boromir said, genially, “If you would pardon us, Your Grace,” he picked the box without any further words and led Lothiriel out by the arm as she tried to curtsy.

Boromir closed the door carefully, before turning to face Lothiriel, “It occurred to me that I had not properly explained our current situation to you,” he said, settling the box on the vanity with care before turning back to look at her a moment as if he was carefully choosing his next words.

“Have you not?” she asked, preparing herself for the lecture of proper conduct and modesty, likely a rage filled one. Had he seen her with Lord Eomer? Or was he simply upset that she had not stayed in the hall the night before? Was he actually going to strike her this time?

“I want to be perfectly clear, that I do not intend to marry you,” Boromir said, smiling softly, his hand resting on her shoulder, “I thought that I had done, but…”

“You… do not intend to…” she stared at him, “You…”

“You are as a sister to me, and you clearly have no interest in this marriage, and as much as I love you, I cannot in good conscience allow you to be coerced into this match.”

Lothiriel stared back at him, “When did you think you expressed this?”

“Days ago, when we first spoke of it.”

She almost crumbled into herself, “You… you… are the biggest fool I have ever met!” she screamed out, “You mean that I could have… Oh, I… AHHH!” she flailed her arms out about her, wanting to throw something, but not wanting to damage anything in her borrowed room.

“Could have admitted to Lord Eomer that you have feelings for him,” Boromir asked, sympathetically, “or else not told him about the arrangement, as it was voided by me. Yes. I am so very sorry about that.”

She stared at him, blushing to her ears, “I… You… Do not speak of such ridiculous ideas! Or any other flight of fancy that you might have taken!”

“You do like him, and there is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“You do not get to tell me how I feel!” she yelled back at him, almost shaking with rage.

“Why are you so angry, then?”

She faltered for a moment, before growling, “It hardly matters besides.”

“I would not be so certain,” Boromir smiled, and there was something about the way he looked about the room suddenly that pained her a little, as if he was remembering some lost moment that he would never have again, “If I am wrong, or have given offense, I am sorry for it. You know that there is so much in the world that tries to make us become something other than what we are.” He settled his hands back on her shoulder with no small measure of trepidation, “I know how hard it is to try to be what others want, rather than what you are. The best thing that we can do in this world is find a person that might at least accept us for who we are, and not try to change us.”

Lothiriel stared back at him, still quaking a little, “What about your father?”

“I am still working out the best way to explain things to him, but leave it to me,” Boromir assured her, squeezing her shoulder a little, “for now concern yourself with…” he gave her a significant look wagging a brow.

“Please say nothing further,” Lothiriel, “ever.”

“I make no promises!” Boromir laughed, and tousled her hair, “I will leave you to sort your possessions, little cousin.”

He continued chuckling to himself as he withdrew from the room and closed the door carefully. Turning to leave the corridor he leapt back with a cry, “Oh, you startled me, my lady.”

Lady Eowyn smirked back, “Not such a pleasant feeling, is it?”

“Well played…” Boromir accepted, and began walking down the corridor. He chanced a look over his shoulder that no one was listening or hiding in the hall from what he could see. Still he lowered his voice, “I told her, and she is not in the least pleased, but more for having missed a chance I think. She will certainly calm quickly, and would likely be able to accept any sign from your lord brother that it is not too late.”

“Good,” Lady Eowyn nodded, tucking something under her arm, out of Boromir’s sight. “Now the real trouble of it all starts…”

“What do you advise we do?”

“Well, we could certainly let it sit and allow them to come to terms with their own emotions and come together in the natural way of such things,” she said with a wise and calm tone.

“Do you think that would work?”

“Not anymore,” she snapped back, “they likely quarreled last night, thanks in large part to your meddling.”

“I had an idea,” Boromir said, grinning.

“Joy,” Lady Eowyn looked at him, waiting patiently to hear whatever lunacy he would express.

“What if Lothiriel went riding, but her horse threw her, and she needed rescuing?”

“I have so many questions…” Eowyn grumbled more to herself than him, “How would you even cause such a thing to happen?”

“Easily enough, we take two of her horse’s shoes off, rendering the steed discomforted,” Boromir said as if it was obvious.

“An excellent plan if you want your cousin to die,” Eowyn blinked at him.

“Oh, I suppose you would be right…” Boromir made a mental note to return the pliers he had borrowed from one of the city’s blacksmiths. He frowned a moment, before looking back at the parcel under Lady Eowyn’s arm. It looked to be a stack of parchment of various sizes tied together with a white ribbon, “What is that you have?”

“I had almost forgot,” she replied in a voice that made him doubt that before she passed the stack over to him, “I meant to blackmail you into breaking the betrothal if you did not see sense.”

Boromir smoothed his hand over the top of the stack, recognizing his own handwriting immediately. He shot Lady Eowyn a quick look, “Where did you get these?”

“I took all of Theodred’s correspondences for safekeeping when he was injured, certain that Wormtongue would have his ruffians looking through every letter for information.”

Boromir’s smile was bittersweet as he clutched the pages in his hand, “Did you read them?”

“No, but that many letters… I was certain if I simply showed that I had them it would be enough to frighten you,” Lady Eowyn’s gaze did not waver as she watched him.

He swallowed past the lump in his throat as he tucked the letters under his arm, “I appreciate your discretion on this matter.”

“Of course,” she said, finally looking away from him, “Theodred counted you among his closest friends.”

“I know,” Boromir said, “Would you pardon me, please.” He did not wait for her assent before turning and going from the hall down to the little guest house that he and his companions had been given use of and closed himself in the small room where he was meant to sleep and sank onto the edge of the bed.

He flipped through the letters by the corners, smiling sadly. It looked as if Theodred had kept every letter that he had ever sent.

The tears that he had held in check since learning of Theodred’s death finally came pouring out, and he could not stop them once they started. He had stood beside Lothiriel at Theodred’s funeral and had been afraid that he would fail to keep his emotions in check, but had instead felt numb. The world saw a man mourning his friend, and that was all they could ever see. It had not truly hit him until now, for he had kept himself so busy to avoid feeling exactly this.

He doubted that Theodred would have spoken about him to Lothiriel beyond a casual mention of familiarity, having always been a jovial sort, but desperately private by necessity. No one would ever know how close they had been, their love would never be put into song or history.

The letters slipped from his grasp as he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes as he sobbed silently at first, and then slowly, not so silently.

0x0x0

Lothiriel paced around her room like a madwoman, torn between relief and rage. On one hand she would not be forced to marry Boromir, and on the other… everything else that he had done or not done or caused by inaction. Any chance she might have had with Lord Eomer was undoubtedly dashed, and she was not even certain that she would want to be with him now. He clearly did not hold her in much regard at all. His choice to leave Meduseld with one of the countless ladies that were trying to catch his eye was still prodded at her pride. If he had taken some interest in her it was clearly only in passing, and there were plenty of ladies who would take her place.

Lord Eomer had clearly gone to that lady’s house with her, and what other reason could there be but the most obvious one. She wondered if they were sweethearts, or if the rumors she had always heard about the Eorlingas were true, that they were more casual in such intimacies than her own people.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stop her mind from going too far into imagined details that would only upset her more. There were other men, and she would find someone that she liked better than Lord Eomer when the war was over. She would be alright, unless her family decided to meddle further as they likely would and make her some other match. Perhaps it would not be worse than the first match.

0x0x0

Eomer, having failed in being able to get himself back to sleep, had gone to groom Firefoot. He now stared at his sister where she stood, leaning her back against the wall of the stall and telling him all about the misunderstanding as far as she understood it.

She carefully left out the attempted matchmaking, certain that it would only irritate Eomer further.

Dragging his eyes from Eowyn’s annoyed face, he returned his attentions to combing the tangles from his horse’s mane, saying nothing.

“Well?” Eowyn asked leaning down to scratch at the space behind Caelon’s ears, having forgotten to bring the dog a treat.

“Well, what?” he snapped back.

“The way is clear for you to court Princess Lothiriel if you had a mind to it,” Eowyn smiled as Caelon leapt up and licked her face.

He grunted in reply, keeping his hands busy.

“What now?” Eowyn asked, standing and crossing her arms across her chest.

“Now, I doubt she would want any part of me presently,” he replied in a low, ornery voice.

“Why would you say that?”

“Because I…” he fell silent a moment before letting out an irritated cry, hurling the comb across the stall, “Damn it all.” He rested his hand on Caelon’s back as soon as the hound barged over, whining, “No, boy. Back.” Eomer pointed to the spot outside of the stall where Caelon’s sitting had disturbed the straw on the flagstones and watched with a careful eye until Caelon sat back down. Caelon gave the same dog smile he always did at having followed instructions, whether he was praised or not. “Good boy,” Eomer nodded quickly.

Eowyn did not react to the outburst beyond raising a brow and shifting her weight a little, “Because she saw you leaving with another woman, and you are certain her feelings might be hurt?” At least she had the kindness not to look smug or rub her rightness in his face beyond speaking those words in that order.

“That would be part of it,” he grumbled, raking a hand through his hair, “but I had the opportunity to…”

Eowyn stood back up suddenly raising a brow and giving him an intrigued smile, “To…”

“Nothing as scandalous as to garner that look,” he assured her, “I think she wanted me to kiss her, and I might have been less than kind in my rebuffing of that offer.”

Eowyn’s eyes widened, “Then go and make amends,” she said, almost grabbing him by the arm and dragging him out but checking herself, “and do so quickly.”

“I have all but insulted her, and called her honor into question,” Eomer shook her hand off, “so I have already closed off any possible interest on her part off.”

“Why are…?” Eowyn began, taking a deep breath to calm herself. She had almost asked why it seemed that almost every man around her was in fact stupid, “I am certain if you apologize that she would forgive you.”

“How can you be so certain of that?” he asked, disbelieving the hopefulness offered to him.

“I told her to stay by you last night, as it would allow her to avoid Lady Baldgwyn’s terrible nieces,” she explained.

“They are the terrible,” Eomer agreed with a short nod, wondering how the women were even from the same family.

“But she would not,” she gave him a look as if this explained everything.

“I fail to see how this is meant to make me feel any better,” Eomer dug the comb back out from the straw in the trough it had landed in and dusting it off.

“Because she thought that if she spoke to you that she might embarrass herself, as she was more than a little inebriated, and then, she begged me not to tell anyone that she liked you, as it would be a scandal.”

“I will let her know that you cannot be trusted with secrets," Eomer retorted, not wanting to point out that this had been hours before the princess had quarreled with her cousin.

Eowyn swatted at him, “Listen, you ignoramus! She likes you, and you like her and you both keep avoiding just talking about it, specifically with each other. Before, I grant you there was a certain obstruction to any such affections, but now,” she gestured at him, “there would be hardly any consequence.”

“Beyond humiliation, if nothing comes of it,” Eomer retorted sarcastically.

Eowyn narrowed her eyes, “You have hardly ever had any trouble speaking to women before, so what is holding you back? Truly?”

There were so many answers that he could give, but none would hold up to his sister’s logical scrutiny. His feelings were not made of logic more than anyone else’s would be.

What if she did not actually like him once they spent any meaningful amount of time together? It was easy enough to fall into infatuation with the idea of a person, but he would actually have to put in effort. In putting in effort, he would be vulnerable, and risk losing his own heart if he ended up caring even more for her and Princess Lothiriel did not share those feelings. Princess Lothiriel was young, and might be prone to the romantic ideas of young ladies. Such ideas hardly ever held up nicely to reality.

That was putting aside that her family might not exactly approve of a relationship between their darling princess and… him. He knew how the Gondorian elite viewed his people, as a great ally, and that they were greatly needed, but also thought that all Eorlingas were better kept to their own country, and certainly away from their daughters. They were seen as barbarians and as uncouth as the horses they bred. Had Theodred not died, Eomer would still be simply the Earl of Aldburg, a landed noble, but with no more prestige than any of the others, and just as likely to garner the Prince of Dol Amroth’s approval for a courtship.

Eowyn was still staring at him, waiting for an answer, all but tapping her foot at him.

“I would have to learn how to use so many pieces of cutlery,” he said suddenly, a new fear that he had not accounted for, and that he wished her would have kept quiet as soon as he said it. But having said it, he would have to stick by it, “You know, Gondorians have at least four different types of spoons!” Admittedly it could be more easily agreed that the meddling nature of his sister’s attempts at helpfulness could be yet another cause for hesitation.

She clucked her tongue, “Honestly, brother?”

“Alright,” a new plan to regain some peace and quiet forming in his mind, “I will speak with Her Highness, and we will see what comes of it.”

“Was that so hard?”

“And you must speak with Lord Aragorn,” Eomer smirked back at his sister, dodging the brush she threw at his head, and bit back a laugh as she stormed away. He patted Firefoot’s neck, “You have no such troubles as these, have you, my friend?”

Firefoot snorted and flicked his tail.

“I thought not, handsome fellow that you are,” Eomer smiled, stooping to pick the bristled brush from where it had landed and plucked the bits of straw that had caught in it, flicking them away.

Caelon gave a quick bark, standing from his seated position and staring at Eomer.

“You are of course just as handsome,” Eomer said his tone serious, “I did not think that such confirmations would need to be given,” he gave Caelon a measured look, “how many litters of puppies have you sired? Clearly you need no encouragement from anyone.”

His dog sat back down, as if he was comforted by the assurance that he was beloved, and clearly superior to Firefoot. It was a years old rivalry in Eomer’s head that he was certain would never be ended. Eomer shook his head at the silly thought as he did every time it came into his mind. If anyone else saw him have conversations with his animals, they would likely think him mad, but it calmed him a little. Animals did not judge.


	7. Chapter 7

Lothiriel pushed a few loose tendrils back over her ear, trying to shield them from the wind that seemed determined to pull her hair loose from her braid in slow, small, irritating increments. She glanced up from the book, having been found was a new sense of comfort in her solitude, and she looked out over the fields and hills.

The garden behind Meduseld was strangely out of place, not in that the people of Rohan did not have gardens, but more that it was clearly inspired by the gardens of Gondor. She guessed that Morwen Steelsheen had been the one to cultivate this little space and that it had been maintained as a memorial to her. There was some relation between her family and Morwen Queen’s she knew but could not quite remember what it was.

Stooping from her seat on the little bench without thought, she tugged up a weed that had been trying to supplant a few budding flowers and froze at the sound of footfalls on the path, certain she would be scolded for interfering with Theoden King’s property, or else this place was for the private use of the King’s family. She turned her head to look and readied herself to offer explanation and apologies to whoever had come upon her, but almost scoffed at Lord Eomer, and closed her book.

“I did not mean to bother you, Your Highness,” Lord Eomer said, almost sheepishly.

“This is your uncle’s house, my lord,” she replied, trying to decide it she should stay or go as she sat back on the bench, “I am only a guest here.” It was miraculous that she had still been allowed to stay in the hall and had not been put in a guest house as her cousin and his friends had. She wondered if it was because there was only one of her and seven of them, or if Eowyn had begged that her new friend be allowed to stay with them the way a younger girl might plead to have a friend stay a few days.

“I hope that you have enjoyed your time here,” Lord Eomer said, his voice was low, but sounded hopeful that she would confirm that she had, before quickly adding, “Thus far, I mean. You are of course welcome to stay as long as you wish. I did not mean to infer that you were to depart yet.”

She looked up at him, confused by the sudden stream of awkward words coming out of Lord Eomer, and at the wincing way that he looked away from her.

“I have, thank you.” She had until that moment decided that she would stay in her place, having been there first, but he seemed to so clearly feel uncomfortable in her presence that she stood and took a few steps to go back to the hall, “I will leave you, my lord, and let you enjoy some peace.”

“No, you need not go,” he said a little eagerly.

“I do not think you wish to be around me at present, unless you mean to further insult me,” she said stopping in the middle of her curtsy, feeling the words leave her mouth before she could stop them. She should feel as awkward around him as he clearly did around her. Her desperate actions the night before should have made her blush at least a little, but the feeling of rejection and the anger that came with it was far more pressing.

“I have no such intention,” he assured her, his hand held out as if to soothe her forthcoming irritability, “I had thought that perhaps I might speak with you.”

“If you wish,” she folded her hands over the book of poetry, “what did you wish to speak about?”

“Would you mind if I sat?” He asked after a moment, thinking that perhaps if he was forced to stay still, then he would be able to think out his words and thus not bungle them again.

She gestured to the bench that she had just vacated, debating if protocol required her to sit as well, but decided that she would stay standing. Her knees shook a little as she wondered what he was so nervous to say. She took a few breaths to try to calm her mind, and thus hopefully her body.

“I heard a rumor that you were no longer betrothed,” he said, looking at her for confirmation.

“It would seem that my lord cousin meant to express such a thing, but failed to do so, having thought that he had some days past now,” she kept her gaze level, not giving anything away.

“How do you feel given this…” he couldn’t find the right words for it, “given that you are no longer to be married?”

“As if a lot of time was wasted,” she said simply.

“In what way?”

“I gave so much fear and anxiety to a matter that was not only of little import, but also was apparently not a matter at all.”

“You do not think…” he stopped again, looking away from her at the ground, “that some opportunities were lost by that miscommunication.”

“Opportunities were lost by that and more.”

“How do you mean?” His dark eyes were back on her face, studying her, and trying to decipher the feelings hidden behind the courtly mask that her features had become. She was lovely, but he wished he could see even a sliver of emotion in her face and wondered if she had lost the confidence in him to show herself freely.

“Pardon me, my lord, but may I ask what your sudden interest in my feelings is?” Lothiriel asked, growing a little weary of this conversation, brief as it had already been. Was he only here to taunt her, or make her aware of how precarious her current situation was?

“You think my interest sudden?”

“Only last night, I made my feelings perfectly clear. As did you.”

“Did I?” he almost smirked.

“When given the choice between…” she blushed, staring at the book in her hands, dusting her hand over it as if some clump of soil had leapt from the ground to its cover, trying to find a delicate way to say what she thought, “kissing me or attending to the comforts of some other lady, you made the decision, and quite easily, it would seem.” She had no right to be jealous, she reminded herself not for the first time. But, still felt the envy of the lady that had been in his arms the night before. That lady had been free to do what Lothiriel by rank and birth was not.

“But at that point, I did not know that you were in fact free to be pursued.”

“You make me sound rather like a rabbit to be hunted, my lord. I do hope that you do not speak of all ladies in such a way.”

“I only meant that, had I known, I would have made a different decision.”

“But you did choose,” Lothiriel sighed, her shoulders bobbing a little, trying not to blush further, “and in truth perhaps that lady is a better match for you, being born of this country and being more able to give into the entertainments of the flesh, where I am not.”

“I walked her home, and nothing else,” he swore, suddenly realizing what it was that she thought had happened, “she is only a friend.”

She did not dare to hope in believing him, “A dear one, I would hazard to guess.”

“Yes, our mothers were friends,” he said, feeling a little attacked. Why should he have to defend his actions against her assumptions, untrue as they were, “I can promise you that I want nothing from her but friendship.” He stood, and walked the short distance to her, peering down into her face, his heart begging her to look back up at him.

“Then, what is you want from me?” she asked, her eyes still downturned.

“Whatever you might still be inclined to give me,” he said honestly.

Lothiriel looked up, startled, and meaning to ask him for clarification. His proximity stopped her from being able to form the question, or any thought beyond his handsome features. The sunlight made his eyes look like honey and amber. There was something like concern in his look, and she could hardly think of anything, besides that she still wanted to be mad at him, and that she was failing at it. Damn him and his closeness, and its effects on her.

“If you would send me away, I would go at your command, but not because it would be my own wish,” he said, his voice so gentle that it confused her all the more. “I would rather stay by you for a time, if you would allow, and speak with you, and come to know you.”

“Why should you want that?” she asked, needing to hear him say it to believe that it was true.

“You have already become dear to me, though I had not dared to think that there might ever be some chance that you would be able to share such feelings.”

“Why did you think so?”

“Putting aside that I am not always able to be forthcoming with my own feelings,” he began, “You are a fine lady, a princess of Gondor, and should be surrounded by every fine thing in the world. I have little enough use for silks or…” he shrugged, “a complicated society as the one that you came up in.”

She smiled a little, looking down a moment, wanting to take stock of everything that he was saying without having to look at his face. “I am not so fine as that, nor do I think I am deserving of much presently.”

Lord Eomer tenderly tilted her chin back up with his fingers, making her look at him, suddenly feeling that he had made her feel so. His face was the very picture of concerned contrition, “I was not as kind to you as I should have been, and I would beg your forgiveness.”

“There is no cause to ask for it,” she said, trying to catch her breath, and her comportment, risking a look back up at him, “as long as I need not ask forgiveness for any of my own actions, and words. I fear that I was rather impulsive last night, and that I should be sorry for it, and for leaping to such conclusions as I have, especially considering that I had no right to feel such jealousy.”

He smiled just a little and she realized that she had never seen him smile beyond a quick twitch of his lips or a softening of his countenance beyond the stern visage he usually presented.

Reaching her free hand slowly up, she touched his cheek, “You have made a grave error, my lord.”

“That being?” Eomer frowned, his heart suddenly stopping in his chest at her words, not taking the teasing way that she had said them.

“Having seen you smile, I might wish to see you do so more regularly that you would wish,” she blushed a little at the flirtation. She knew how to flirt, what words might have what effect on a man, and what calculations to make, but she wondered if she had ever flirted with a selfish intention before. She must have.

“Then I suppose I may need to make an attempt to smile more, if it pleases you so,” Lord Eomer replied, still smiling, “May I kiss you, my lady?”

She lurched up, snatching at the front of his tunic to pull him down to her lips, dropping her book to the ground carelessly.

He almost yelped at her sudden eagerness not having expected that a high-born princess would leap up against him, but her soft lips quieted him. As soon as his lips met hers, as soon as he registered her little body pressed against his, he did not want to be pulled away for anything in the world.

He was gentler that she expected he would be, even when he recovered from the surprise of it. His hand slid up the back of her neck to hold her, his fingers gently sliding into her hair.

Lothiriel had been kissed before, but she could not remember if she had liked it so much as this. Lord Eomer’s lips caressed against hers with slow and careful attention and she melted under his ministrations, her hands clinging to his shoulders. When he did pull back from her, he looked at her with a wide, crooked grin for a moment before pressing another quicker kiss to her lips.

She bit her lips together to prolong the feeling for a moment longer before grinning up at him as his hands slid down over her back to rest against her waist.

“I had hoped that you would perhaps consent to a courtship,” he said chuckling a little, resting his brow against hers for a moment.

She blushed and nodded, “I would, though, I should warn you that you would need to ask my father and my uncle for permission.”

“Why? It is not as if I mean to ask you to marry me,” he said, the hurriedly added, “yet. I mean,” he flushed, “I would of course ask for your hand at such a time that it was appropriate to do so.”

She laughed, deciding that she liked this side of him a little more than she ought to. He had ever seemed so confident and sure of his actions, and to see him stumbling through his words, it was rather sweet. “I am afraid it is the way that things are done. I may not be engaged in an official courtship while there is open war in my country, as it is seen as… indecorous.”

“Then I will ask Lord Boromir to allow me to spend time with you until such a time that I might ask your father,” he said with care, not wanting to ask what on earth and official courtship entailed, for it sounded like a nightmare borne on the wings of paperwork, ceremony, and announcements. He gave her a look, asking if that was the appropriate thing to do.

“I am certain he will agree to it.”

“Are you certain that he is not upset that you and he will not be wed?”

“I promise,” she smiled, “having thought on it, I think he has been trying to throw us together. Did he ask you to come after me last night?”

Lord Eomer’s head dropped back and he stared at the sky, groaning as things began to make sense in a way, and he hated it all.

She laughed, covering her mouth with her hand even as he looked back at her, and he gently moved her hand away from his mouth, to see her smile.

Lothiriel pulled back a little, to regain some breath, and some level of restraint, “I know that there are matters far more important than any of this, but…”

“Have you lived your entire life putting other matters before yourself?” he asked suddenly, studying her as she turned and took a few slow steps.

She shrugged a little, “I have duties and responsibilities, and my family has ever needed me to attend to them.” Looking up at him, she smiled, resting her hand on his arm, “Might you walk with me for a time, my lord? If you had no other obligations…”

“If you are not tired of my company yet,” he teased, moving her hand to the crook of his arm and covering it with his own with a gentle nervousness that he hoped would eventually leave him. He still felt certain that she would at any moment stop and point at him, breaking in to peals of laughter that he had believed her interest earnest and run to tell everyone what a soft fool he secretly was.

Her hand squeezed his forearm gently as she fell into step beside him, “Well, I have not, my lord.”

0x0x0

“What are you doing?” Theoden asked, at the sight of Eowyn peering around the corner of the hall’s exterior.

“Nothing,” she stood quickly, and looking as if she had been caught at some crime.

With a quickly checked smirk, Theoden rounded the corner to see what had held his niece’s attention. Eomer stood there smiling at Princess Lothiriel and she was smiling back up at him as they spoke in low voices. Theoden took a few careful steps back around the corner and nodded, “I take it this is your doing?”

“I have no idea what you mean, uncle,” Eowyn replied, clearly keeping her pride in check, before her face fell a fraction, as she realized that she had not thought of the ramifications of getting the pair together if her uncle did not approve of such a thing. She had for a few moments forgotten that her brother was going to be King, “Do you think they might make a good match?”

“That is entirely up to them,” Theoden guided her away with a gentle hand on her shoulder, “and I think they might do better without any further interference.”

“If they do, and if Prince Imrahil approved…” Eowyn began, trying to find the right way to ask her uncle what he thought, or how many requests would be required from Gondor.

“I will speak to the Prince when this war is over,” Theoden assured her, “and ask him to allow a courtship and a marriage if they wish.” He wondered how his father had been so comfortable in Gondor, and with the lofty self-importance of the society there. The entire culture seemed keen on placing as many obstacles between people as possible.

“Wait,” Eowyn stopped in front of the hall’s door, realization beginning to shape in her mind, overwhelming her self-congratulation, “What did you mean by ‘further interference?’”

Theoden gave her a quick look that begged her not to ask such stupid questions, as she was certainly smarter than that. “I may be old, but I am not blind,” he smiled, “In truth I had hoped that Lord Boromir would hold off in specifying his request for your aid a while longer. I should likely not admit it, but I did find some amusement in his clumsy attempt at matchmaking.”

“I beg your pardon, uncle, but how long were you going to watch Lord Boromir create absolute chaos of two people’s lives?”

Theoden frowned, not liking that point of view. “I had not decided.”

Eowyn smirked, “You certainly could have mentioned something sooner.”

“Yes, well…” Theoden nodded a moment before turning and walking away, deciding at once that he was quite through with this conversation.

“Uncle!” Eowyn said, trailing after him.

“I am terribly sorry, but I have to meet with my advisors.”

“You have all adjourned for the day!”

“I cannot hear you for the distance and my failing ears!” Theoden called back hurrying to his rooms where he might be safe from further questioning.

0x0x0

This would be simple enough, being only a social formality born of Gondorian custom and if Eomer knew one thing about Gondorians, they loved little as much as social formality. All he had to do was ask Lord Boromir permission to non-officially court Lothiriel, until he could speak to her father, and Lord Boromir would certainly agree since it seemed that it had been his intention that they would in fact end up courting. It was a simple enough thing. Having done that he could go back to Lothiriel and he could enjoy his time with her and hope that it would not be brief.

So, in light of the simplicity of his task, why were the halflings standing at the door of the house and glowering at him, and all but rolling up their shirtsleeves?

“Master Brandybuck, Master Took,” Eomer bowed his head, “Is Lord Boromir available?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Horse Boy,” Pippin said, crossing his arms over his puffed chest.

“I… would like to know,” Eomer said slowly, not entirely certain if the moniker was meant as an insult, but taking in the tone that had been applied to the words was momentarily concerned that he was about to be attacked, “That is why I asked.”

“He’s inside, but I doubt he wants to talk to the man that stole his fiancée,” Merry said, glowering up at him.

“That is not what happened. At all,” Eomer said, his voice flat, “I would speak with him, if that is agreeable to the pair of you.” The Halflings seemed to think that they were intimidating. Though on a moment of reflection, being kicked by a halfling did not sound pleasant.

“So, you have come to gloat then,” Pippin asked, all but thumbing his nose at Eomer, “To rub salt in the wound, eh?”

“If Lord Boromir is upset, I doubt it is of my making,” Eomer said, sidestepping the little guards and doing his best not to look back over his shoulder at them. He took a breath and knocked on the door to Lord Boromir’s room.

“I am perfectly fine,” a weary and falsely chipper voice called from the other side.

A door opened down the corridor and Lord Aragorn left the room, his pipe in hand. For a moment, Eomer felt a sense of relief in the presence of another person, perhaps one that might help him. That hope was quickly dashed as Lord Aragorn, having looked at Eomer for a moment, and then at Lord Boromir’s closed door, turned around and went back, closing his own door firmly behind him and sliding the bolt in place.

Eomer let a breath out through his nose, “Lord Boromir, there was a matter I had hoped to discuss with you,” he called, raising his voice a little, and doing his best not to fidget too much.

The door flew open immediately revealing a red-eyed and frazzled looking Lord Boromir who immediately pasted a large and unconvincing smile on his face, “Hello, my friend, how are you this afternoon?”

“Quite well, and you, my lord?”

“I am perfectly well, simply coming to terms with the fact that I will die alone!” Lord Boromir said, slowly slipping back into weeping.

Oh, no, please by all the powers in this world and any others, no. Eomer took another breath, low and beleaguered, before asking in a flat voice, “Would you like to talk about what you are feeling?”

“Well,” Lord Boromir hesitated a moment before withdrawing back into the room, leaving the door open.

How long could this take? Seriously, how long?

“It all began when I was your age,” Lord Boromir began, sinking back into a chair, “I thought I knew everything, but I had never truly been in love.”

Eomer took a seat and settled in for what was certainly going to be a long and uncomfortable conversation, “How lonely you must have been.”

“I only realized it after I met…,” Lord Boromir wiped his eyes, thinking a moment about how to keep his secrets while getting it all off his chest, “when I fell in love it was not what I had expected, and I knew that my family would never accept the person that I loved.”

“Why not?”

“Political marriages are rarely happy ones,” it was the vaguest and most honest answer Boromir could offer, “and as Denethor’s son my marriage would of course be expected to be to some political benefit.”

Eomer considered the statement for a moment, “Is that why you wanted to see your cousin in a different sort of match?”

“I am expected to continue my line, and if I do not it might mean dishonor, and failure of one of the most serious duties of a lord of my station. But I would rather have that failure than see my favorite cousin waste away in misery the same way that my mother and aunts did.”

There was something in Lord Boromir’s eyes that made it clear that there was more to the story, and for a moment Eomer began to understand that he might have been wrong for quite some time. He did not want to ask for more information, certain that it would lead to more tears. There was a question that he could ask that might be impertinent and entirely wrong, but was the only one that he could think of to ask, “Who was she?”

“Who was who?”

“Your love?”

“An Eorlinga,” Lord Boromir said, wistfully guarded, “I had never met anyone with such an amazing sense of humor in my life, and we understood each other…”

“Why would your family not approve, if you were so in love… was it only that she was not of your own country?” If that had been the case, what chance did Eomer have? He studied Boromir’s face, uncertain of what to believe in the words the man uttered. “Or was it a matter of station?”

“There were… the reasons are complicated,” Boromir thought for a moment how much he could say, “Suffice to say, there was no way that my father would have agreed to my wishes.”

“Where is she now?”

“The one I loved is dead,” Lord Boromir said, looking back at Eomer with gleaming eyes, “and I will not find anyone that would be able to replace what is lost to me.”

“Well, you might yet,” Eomer said, his mind suddenly empty of any other assurance that he could offer and understanding the sense of loss, “you have some good years left.” He almost winced at his poor use of words.

“No, I doubt that I will,” Lord Boromir smirked, “You are young, and in time you might understand that there are people that come into your life, and that once they leave it, there is no replacing them. I know it seems overly romantic as far as opinions go, but I am of the thought that the human soul can only sustain one great and true love. I have had mine, and I would not trade it for anything.”

“I might understand better than you think,” Eomer said in a low voice, looking at his hands folded in his lap. He bowed his head respectfully to the older man, waiting a moment to see if Lord Boromir would go on, “I had hoped that I might ask your permission to pay court to Lothiriel at least in what simple way might be appropriate, that I might come to know her, and I cannot yet speak to her father to ask his blessing... I know that she is young, and that she is precious beyond measure, but I can assure you that my intentions are entirely honorable.” He sat patiently waiting for the assent to be given so that he could leave this awkward situation, but Boromir gave no answer. For a moment Eomer felt a quick stab of fear before he heard a sniffle. He looked up and was alarmed by the look of tearful glee on Boromir’s face.

“Of course, I would agree. What do you think I have been attempting to accomplish?” Boromir stood and quickly dragged Eomer from his seat, grasping his hand, “I cannot claim to speak for her father, but I will do everything in my power to aid you in your endeavors.” He embraced Eomer a little too tightly for a moment before stepping back and staring at him.

“I appreciate that,” Eomer nodded curtly before smiling as best as he could manage.

Boromir patted Eomer’s cheek gently. The young man was no as unlike his cousin as he seemed, but Boromir would not be able to say so. He was such a sensitive soul under the walls he put up. Granted there were many walls… Boromir clasped Eomer’s shoulder, “You are a good man.”

Eomer bowed his head and started for the door, hesitating a moment, knowing that if he spoke he would either gain some esteem from a warrior that he admired and respected, or he would lose the regard entirely of someone that was a sorely needed ally, in both matters this war, and in his own personal life. In his experience secrets only created shame, and while he might not understand, he could at least sympathize. He turned a moment, having decided to put aside pretense, “If I may ask…?”

“Anything.”

“Did Theodred know?”

Boromir stared at him, stammering for a moment, “Did he know about what?”

“The girl?” Eomer asked, feeling uncomfortable again in the lie that they had been willing to tell each other, “I… I had thought that you were close…”

“He was a dear friend.”

“My cousin was a kind man, understanding to a fault, but he had a jealous streak,” Eomer said carefully, giving Boromir a look, “and he did not take lightly to betrayal, especially if he had…” he did not know how to phrase it, “shown such loyal affection to a person.”

“What are you implying?”

Eomer glanced at the letters on the small table by Boromir’s bed for a moment then back to him, not certain how to go on, “Theodred never said a word, and he never married, much to my uncle’s irritation. But I do not recall him ever being so contented as he seemed to be in your company. Forgive me if I speak beyond what might be deemed appropriate.”

Boromir let out a slow, shaking breath, “In another life, perhaps things might have been different.”

“You have my condolences for your loss, my lord,” Eomer bowed again, not saying that Theodred had slipped once while drinking, and that Eomer, being little more than a boy, and having been the only one close enough to hear, had been of opinion that Theodred had been taken as a fool in some cruel game. He had said so to his cousin had been advised in no uncertain terms to mind his own business, and for a moment Eomer had been certain that Theodred would have beaten him to death for speaking so directly, or so cruelly in retrospect. A cruel prankster would not weep over the death of someone that they had tormented for years.

“I have done my best to busy myself so as to not have to confront this emptiness,” Boromir admitted, for a moment looking as if he would weep again, “For a day or so I was certain that I would see him coming through the door, but…” he shook his head, “Do you think me a monster, then? Since you clearly know more than you would have thought to admit.”

“No, I have tried to never concern myself with what others do, as it is no business of mine,” and it was an honest enough answer, “and I swear to you, anything that has been said in this room will stay here. And should you need to talk, I will do my best to make myself available.” He fought off a shudder at the thought of another tear-filled conversation.

“You are a good listener,” Boromir said, “Thank you.”

Eomer’s hand touched the door, “Though I might ask that as soon as you might be able, you would call off your guardians. The halflings seem to have mistaken your grief for something of my making, and I believe they mean me harm.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare for an exposition dump and some angst.

Freya barged into the sitting room, her face flushed with rage, “You will never guess what she’s done!”

Lady Baldgwyn leapt a little at the sudden entry of her niece, looking up from her embroidery, and not for the first time wondered how much longer her nieces would need to stay with her. If it was up to her, they would have gone back to her sister’s house weeks ago, but that was an uncharitable thought, and she knew that she should not feel so about her own kin.

“What?” Cynewara demanded, clearly knowing who her sister was talking about without being told, a certainty that Lady Baldgwyn lacked and was not sure she wanted for the malicious gleam in their eyes.

“She was walking through the city on Lord Eomer’s arm not two hours ago!”

Cynewara smacked her hand on the table, “NO! She never did!”

Staring between the angry ladies, Lady Baldgwyn took a centering breath and set her work aside, knowing that she would be eventually expected to a participant in this rage- fueled conversation.

“I swear it is true! I saw it with my own eyes!” Freya said, “The pair of them walking about as if it was nothing.”

“Lord Boromir will call him out, you just watch!”

The beginning of the question was on Baldgwyn’s lips but made it no further as she could put together what had happened in some form. “It is none of our business, girls,” she said, doing her best to be a calming influence, for all the effect it would have.

“He might not, from what I heard from Halwyne down at the bakery,” Freya went on, ignoring their aunt, “She said that she heard from one of the halflings that the pair of them were going to fight Lord Eomer because Lord Boromir had withdrawn into his rooms in such a deep dismay that he would not be moved.”

“That stuck up little… ugh,” Cynewara scoffed, her mind for insults failing her suddenly, “Do you think he means to keep her?”

“They’ll never be married. Her family won’t allow it, so if he did mean to keep her, she would have to be his mistress!” Freya sounded gleefully in her spite.

“Poor Eomer,” Baldgwyn sighed, “he deserves some happiness, and her too, I’d wager. I hope her kin would not be so harsh as to not allow them to pursue a relationship.”

Cynewara and Freya stared at her, their faces almost comedic in their horrified composition before looking back at each other.

“Aunt, do you mean to say you would want a us to have a Queen from Gondor?” Freya demanded, aghast by the implications of such a thing.

“I find I care little enough where she is from if it is a happy match,” Baldgwyn said, firmly, “There has been enough sadness in this country. We have not had a queen in…” she thought for a long moment, “Since long before either of you were born. Not since Thengel King’s death, and not since the Morwen Steelsheen left the court and went back to Lossarnach.”

Baldgwyn wondered absently if the Dowager Queen might still be alive somewhere, but she personally doubted it. Princess Elfhild had died a few years before Theoden had taken the throne and had left most of the management of the household of Meduseld to the keeper of house Gredda, a firm woman that brokered little enough insurrection. Having seen the state of the house ledgers once, Baldgwyn did not envy the next queen the duty of rectifying them.

“And you know how well _that_ went for us,” Cynewara snapped, “we lost most of our army, and Thengel King was rumored not to have wanted to come back from Gondor to rule at all, being seduced by their finery and delicate ways.”

“But he did return,” Baldgwyn said, having her own opinions of the king’s father, but keeping them to herself, “I will say this once more, and I will have you both mind my words. This matter is not our business, and I do not want the either of you doing anything that will reflect poorly on me.”

“But-” Cynewara started.

“I do not believe I stammered or spluttered,” Baldgwyn said, simply, staring back at the girls, and hoping beyond the logic of it that they might actually listen to her this time, “I am a lady of this court, and you stay here in my house because I allow it. Any hint of trouble, if you do anything that might shame me, I will send you home and tell your mother the reason why.”

Their pickled faces should not have made her happy, but they did. She did not in truth like the pair of them very much, but they were their kin. She had seen little enough of them since they were children and had agreed to let them come stay with her out of a hope that having two young women in her house would bring some fun into her life. Their mother had hoped that they might come to the capitol to make matches. Watching them leave the room with quick curtsies, she smirked a little, and went to look through the window.

She opened it a crack to let in some air, and to watch the people mill about the houses as she returned to her needlework.

Why could she not have kinder nieces? Was it so hard as that to mind their own fences? She knew they had been doing everything in their power to try to embarrass Princess Lothiriel the night before, the both of them likely thinking it would be funny if she could not walk, or else if she made a fool of herself in her inebriated state.

It would be dishonest if she said she had not sat by the window with some small hope that she might see Eomer and Lothiriel walk by. She would not speak to them or call any attention to herself, but she thought they would likely make at least a nice-looking couple. She had suspected that the Princess had some measure of infatuation, but had said nothing, having been her age once and having flitted through interest in different boys and men as the feeling struck her. The princess was sweet, and if she judged right has some wildness under her kindness. That spirited nature should have been nurtured rather than snuffed, in Baldgwyn’s humble opinion, but she knew little enough of the ways of the South beyond the generalizations that she and everyone else had heard.

She did not see Princess Lothiriel, but she did watch Lord Eomer walk back to the hall with what looked like a small, self-satisfied look on his face. She wondered where he had been, and what the meaning of that look was, but having scolded against gossip did her best not to let her mind spin stories. She would simply ask Her Highness next time she saw her.

0x0x0

“What did you do today, Eomer?” Theoden asked at dinner, with all the casual ease of someone asking such a normally banal question. He missed this, having dinner with his family.

Eomer could feel his sister staring at him, and he wanted to push her the way he would have when they were children and she was going to tell on him. “I asked Lord Boromir’s permission to court Princess Lothiriel while she is here,” he said, doing his best to make the news sound innocuous.

Theoden let out a small noise of interest, “I assume it went well.”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Theoden nodded, “Eowyn, pass the butter please.”

Eowyn did so and shoved her irritation down inside herself. Was that all they were going to say? Eomer had been gone, speaking with Lord Boromir, for almost an hour. What was said? She would corner Eomer later and try to get the full story out of him. Her uncle had told her to leave him be once already and Theoden’s easy nature with his family had returned with his grasp of freedom.

There were moments still where Theoden looked as if he had forgotten something, or as if he was looking for Theodred, having forgotten for a moment that his son was not coming home from a patrol. Seeing the crushed look of weariness that would come over her uncle’s face in those moments was almost enough to send her to her rooms to collect herself.

In everything that was happening, it felt as if they were disregarding the loss of Theodred, his chair sitting empty as the only reminder of his death. It was strange because as wrong as it felt, she was still so aware that she was as guilty of it as anyone else.

Perhaps in time she would be able to talk about Theoden, but she was not yet ready to broach the subject at all feeling like it was a healing wound that pressed would bleed anew.

Cutting her eyes at her brother she asked, in a voice that was perfectly polite, “Where is Princess Lothiriel this evening?”

“Lord Boromir requested that she eat with his company,” Theoden said, saving Eomer from having to answer, though no saving Eowyn from the quick glare Eomer shot at her.

0x0x0

The halflings had made a show early upon her arrival of, not threatening her but more of disapproval, even as she explained the tangled mess of miscommunication and misunderstanding. They did not believe it until Boromir assured them that she was speaking the truth and that he was not upset with the current situation. He expounded that it was a personal matter but went no further in his explanation, smiling a little sadly.

Supper was good and she had smiled a little watching the group talked and teased each other. She sat in their company feeling comfortable and content.

“So,” Pippin said, having listened to the entire confusing tale, his eyes squinting a little, “What are you going to tell your father?”

“Only that…” Boromir paused, thinking, “In truth I am still trying to find the best way to deal with him.”

“I doubt my uncle will be pleased no matter what is said.” Lothriel almost grumbled the words

“Unless…” Boromir began then stopped, “No that would be completely dishonorable.”

“He would love to have a spy in Meduseld,” she smirked wryly, knowing his thought without him saying it aloud, before shaking her head and clucking, “though I would not tell him anything. I do not want to be the person that I was… Oh, I could be quite helpful to Theoden King then and be able to…” Lothiriel stopped short, realizing that she was talking aloud, “Enough of this grim talk, I would rather like to hear how you two came to be abducted by Uruk-Hai,” she smiled a little brighter at the hobbits.

The whole of the group passed strange looks between themselves, wondering what they ought to say, knowing that while Lothiriel said that she had no interest in reporting to her uncle anymore, that their charge had been secret for a reason. Perhaps it might have been better not to go directly from discussing spy-craft to asking what their secret mission was, but she hadn’t meant to draw the information out for any reason beyond the curiosity of it all.

She stared between them, waiting for someone to speak, and not wanting to speak first. The only person that did not seem to feel uncomfortable with the question was the Wizard Gandalf who puffed on his pipe and studied her with a look that she chose to see as interest, though she was more than a little certain that it was more a look of distrust. She felt a sudden need to tell Gandalf what she knew, that Lord Denethor had been using the Palantir to learn the devices of Mordor. It would be a betrayal, but she felt under the direct and knowing gaze that she ought to tell Gandalf anything that he might find interesting

“We would rather keep our own council on that matter,” Lord Aragorn finally said.

“Of course,” she said, lamely, finally able to not look at the wizard, “I am sorry to have asked, I know it is not my business or place.”

“Someday you will know, I am certain of it,” Merry said, mysteriously.

“There will be great songs of our travels, I think,” Pippin added.

Lothiriel smiled, biting back the question that she knew would get no answer on, “Of course, you have led the Ents to overthrow Saruman,” she said noting the glare from Gandalf at the younger Halfling.

0x0x0

“Your friends seem nice,” Lothiriel said, “Though I note Lord Gimli did not seem to have much to say.” Nor did Gandalf, but she kept that to herself. She was not certain why the wizard seemed so suspicious of her, beyond the obvious. Perhaps it was only that he was not certain he could trust any member of Denethor’s household, and that mistrust would be rightly placed, her own intentions aside. A person could say that they meant to be better than they had been, but without action to prove such a change, why should anyone believe it.

“I think he is still feeling the effects of ale drunk too copiously,” Boromir said, smiling.

“Are you certain you are alright?” she asked, “I mean to say, I know something has upset you, but I do not know what.”

“Nothing to trouble you with, simply a personal matter.”

“You said, but…”

Boromir rested his hand on the top of her head, “I will be alright.”

She studied him a moment, not certain whether or not she ought to press him for answers or let him keep his secrets. He had never been good at keeping secrets for long, she knew, so he would likely tell her in time if she let him sit on his troubles for a time. Swatting his hand from her head, she smirked, “Well, your plans worked themselves out, despite being not well devised in the least. You will need to find some other preoccupation until the call comes to get back to fighting.”

“I will certainly need to find something to do, but I will find something,” he said smiling, “I might as Theoden King if I might have some paper and ink.”

“Are you going to pen your memoirs?”

“Perhaps, or else put down some notes for something I am considering…” he looked at her, wondering if he should tell her what his next project would be since it included her, but he had to figure out how to tell her what he meant to. He had wisdom to impart yet on his young cousin.

“Well, if it comforts you, then do it. You do always love your projects.”

“And you do not?” Boromir laughed, “You took over the handling of your father’s household from Aunt Ivriniel before you were sent to live with my father, and you were so irritated with her bookkeeping that you redid all of the ledgers in a system of your own devising.”

“They were a mess, and I did not create the system, I only redid them in a system that actually made sense!” she retorted, relieved by knowing something that she had done.

“The originally system likely made sense.”

“The system was mostly just sheets of paper shoved into a box, and some of them were dated, but most were just quick notations will little more than ‘we are in possession of money!’”

“I quake in terror of what my father’s books look like.”

“They are very meticulous,” she smiled approvingly.

“Perhaps you ought to be allowed to take over…” Boromir began and stopped short, remembering himself, “You, little cousin, are very accomplished. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“Is anyone likely to?”

“You have a good mind, and sometimes that attribute is not appreciated,” Boromir said vaguely, “Our lady aunt is quite similar in that regard, and to her credit she has built one of the best spy networks in Gondor. I might say the best but for the one that my father has.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because if you mean to marry for love, you might want to ensure that you can stay one step ahead of everyone else.”

“You make it sound so ominous, as if our family would rather see me dead that happy.”

“I would not go that far.”

“I do not know that I want to marry him, and perhaps I will love him, but I do not yet,” she said, catching his words finally, and narrowing her eyes at Boromir, “I hardly know him in truth, even if he has so far been very… kind.”

“If you did, there are certainly reasons that it would be approved of, but there are also reasons to be cautious.” Boromir smiled at her fierce little face.

She stopped in her steps, “Would you care to elaborate on that?”

Boromir took a deep breath, “You are your father’s favorite child, though he would never admit it, and he might be hesitant to allow you to uproot your life and go to another country.”

“Yet he was not so hesitant to send me to live with you lot?” Lothiriel raised a brow. She put little enough stock in Boromir’s belief of her father’s tender affections.

“Your father loves you. He thought you might be safer in Minas Tirith, but more than that, he thought that you would have more opportunities than you would have had if you stayed.”

“Did I not have a governess for quite some time?”

Boromir winced, hoping that trauma would have been lost, “Yes, and I was not certain that you would remember her yet.”

“She was… not very kind to me, was she?”

“No. Theodred and I actually had a fight about that once,” Boromir admitted, a strange tone in his voice. Theoden had almost smashed a bottle of wine on the floor when Boromir had explained that it was not a matter that either of them should involve themselves in.

“Why would you have?” Lothiriel stared up, perplexed by her what her cousin was telling her.

Boromir swallowed, looking ahead of himself, “He was concerned that Lady Neithariel was disciplining you too firmly, and wanted to intervene.”

“How would he know anything about it?” Lothiriel scoffed, not believing her cousin’s words.

“You met him years ago.”

“I think I would have remembered meeting the Crown Prince of Rohan.”

“You were only three or four at the time,” Boromir said, quietly, “you called him the funny man.”

She looked down, considering that, “I do not know that I remember it, but I will admit I have had dreams of him singing, but assumed that they were born more of my own guilt.”

“You know the ambush was not of your making.”

“I do, but it does not change the feeling,” she said, “You should know that better than anyone else.” Every attack on their country that lost them land Boromir had taken as a personal failure.

“He liked you,” Boromir said smiling, “and was concerned.”

“He said nothing about it when I met him.”

“In truth I do not think he would have,” Boromir’s smile had a strange tint to it, as if he knew some amusing secret.

Lothiriel studied his face in the dim light, trying to read what it was he was holding back, “You were friends.”

“Yes,” Boromir said, “and Theodred would have been a great asset to my matchmaking, I can assure you.”

“Would he have been?”

“Of course, had I someone else to hear my ideas and critique them, I would have succeeded sooner, little cousin, you mark me!”

“Have you also planned the wedding?” she asked, laughing for a moment before catching sight of his face, “I say this with all the love that I can give, but you need a pastime that is not my potential marriage.”

“I have so little else to do at present, and I will admit this has been a comfort to me,” he chuckled, pausing at the steps up to the hall, “Let us have lunch the day after tomorrow, if it is possible.”

“Alright,” she smiled her brow furrowing a little, “I will see you tomorrow, I wouldn’t doubt.”

She embraced Boromir for a moment before going up the step to the hall, having felt fully comfortable in his presence for the first time in days. She had not considered how much she missed having a family until that moment.

The stairs were still a bit of a struggle for her, but they were getting easier, since she knew that she could walk them without falling on her face. Only two weeks ago, she could barely get out of bed, and now she was walking with only a mild twinge of irritation in her knees and in one of her hips. Lady Baldgwyn had been of the opinion that if she had no intention of trying to get better that she might as well stay in bed for the rest of her life.

The older lady seemed to believe in the medicinal property of mental strength over all things. There might be something to it, but Lothiriel wouldn’t tell her so. Especially considering the grumbling that she had done the first few times she had been dragged out of the small medical wing and forced to walk.

0x0x0

She watched Gandalf ride away with Pippin from the steps of Meduseld, not certain if she should ask what had happened, or why it was that there was so much secrecy around everything to do with her cousin’s friends. She heard footsteps coming toward her and turned instinctively to see who it was that approached her.

“Theoden King,” she curtsied quickly.

“Gandalf is going to Minas Tirith,” King Theoden said casually, answering some small part of her question, “He must speak with your lord uncle.”

She did not ask what the topic of that conversation would be, but she was certain that it was a matter of the war and that it would not be a pleasant exchange, knowing her uncle’s feelings about Gandalf, “I hope that whatever he means to do will help end the war at long last.”

“At the end of this war, will you return home?” Theoden asked, suddenly remembering that Princess Lothiriel had lived her almost her entire life under the threat of war or living through one.

Perhaps starting conversations without preamble of any sort was a family trait. Lothiriel was not certain what answer was wanted from her, wondering if she had made such chaos in his house that he was eager to see the back of her, “I suppose I will need to. My uncle will want me back in Minas Tirith, and my father will want me in Dol Amroth.”

“If you wished to stay here, you would be welcome to,” King Theoden said easily, clasping his hands behind his back, “My nephew has grown quite fond of you, if I have heard right.”

She stared ahead of her into the plains, once again not sure what to say, feeling her cheeks warm at the statement.

“Do you think that your family would let you marry him?”

“I can hardly say,” she allowed, hesitantly, feeling the spot that which she had been placed upon all but fall from under her feet, “I do not know what my life will be when I return to Gondor.”

“Would Lord Denethor not agree to it, then?”

That was the real question, and they both knew it. The politics and power dynamics of her family were notorious in Gondor, and she wondered if they were here as well.

“He…” she thought for a long moment, trying to find a diplomatic answer, “I know that he is fond of me, and has liked to keep me in his house. He might prefer I make a marriage closer to home.”

“Is that your wish?” King Theoden studied her face, trying to read the answer more immediately than waiting for her answer but only found her conflicted feelings

“May I speak freely?” she asked after a moment of contemplation.

“I would ask that you do.”

“I would rather be free to make my own choices, regardless of what my family wishes, but that freedom has been long denied me,” she said, doing her best to meet the King’s gaze directly. “I cannot yet say that I would marry Lord Eomer, but if it was what I wanted, I would hope that my family would fall in line, so to speak.”

“Is that likely?” he reiterated the question, wanting her to say yes or no.

She pursed her lips for a moment, “Again, I cannot say. I wish I had certainty, but as my person is the property of the state, I fear there are more obstacles to my will than most ladies face. Though I might have the benefits that it would be a politically beneficial union to recommend it.”

“Then I must ask what your intentions are,” Theoden stared back at her, unwavering. He liked the young princess well enough but did not want his nephew hurt further than he already had been by life and chance.

She looked at her feet, “I… I have no intentions, so to speak. Rather, I enjoy his company, and currently have no further designs or plans beyond that.”

Theoden nodded slowly, smiling a little, her answer seeming to have pleased him, “I had hoped so, but you understand that I had to ask.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“If you find that your family will not allow you to have that freedom that you seek, know that you would be welcome to stay in Edoras as long as you wish,” Theoden said easily, “I have ensured you the right of sanctuary, and will not withdraw such a thing. Unless you commit some crime,” he smiled gently at her, “and then it would depend on the offense.”

“I doubt you would need the trouble of it,” Lothiriel replied, a little startled by the offer, “My uncle, my family might see that as an… an abduction, or else as some interference in what they would consider a family matter, and for that interference to be done by a foreign state…” She could almost see the line of her uncle’s potential thoughts and wondered if she had been his confidante as well as his spy. For a moment she considered that it might be better to bowing to the assumed wishes of the steward, but she knew that she could not do it in truth. “But I will admit, in complete confidence that I fear returning to Minas Tirith.”

“May I ask why?”

She frowned, “I would rather not speak of it, beyond what I have already said.”

Theoden continued to study the young lady and noted the rigidity in her spine and in her jaw. She was afraid of something without doubt, but he could think of a few things that would elicit that response in what she had already told him. What was it that she would not to discuss? It was far from his place to ask, as he was hardly more than an acquaintance.

Staring out into the lands between where she stood and Minas Tirith, she wondered if Lord Denethor was angry at her for her disappearance from the court. From what little she remembered, she was certain that her uncle was becoming more and more paranoid, thinking that there were plots and schemes against him and his hold on power. She had believed Denethor’s paranoia once, but now she was ashamed of the things that she had done out of fidelity to him. Her life had been the perfect storm of misfortune to make her believe every word her uncle had said.

0x0x0

The little garden seemed a safe haven in part because of its privacy and seclusion, and Eomer sat in contentment beside Lothiriel as they spoke about their families, and he did his best to keep track of the bizarre tangled web of her extended family until she admitted that she saw few of them beside her Aunt Ivriniel, who lived in the Palace at Dol Amroth, Lord Denethor and his sons. She had let out a quick laugh at the look of sheer relief that washed over his face. Shaking his head, he rubbed a hand over her back as her laughing stopped and she fell quiet.

He closed his eyes, feeling the late morning sun and the gentle wind, and wondered if this was what peace felt like.

“If you found out that I was a bad person would you never want to see me again?” Lothiriel asked suddenly.

“I suppose it would depend on what you had done,” Eomer said after a moment of thought looking at her carefully, wondering what the worst thing she could have done could possibly be, “And as such I assume you know that I would ask…”

“If I had ruined people’s lives because my uncle thought that they were plotting against him?”

“How did you ruin them?”

“I would report to Lord Denethor with an almost fanatical fealty,” she said, staring at the ground, the toe of her shoe kicking at the dirt of the path, “and other things…”

Eomer stared at her, silently urging her to go on.

“My uncle asked me to poison a high lord member of the court that he was certain was going to betray us, and who we thought was trying to raise support for his cause. Lord Tirdirion had thought that I would be a good match for his son, and so would have been more willing to speak to me.”

“Did you do it?”

“No,” she said, “I warned Lord Tirdirion to get himself out of the city, and to hold his tongue, and I told my uncle that I had not been able to do what he asked for lack of opportunity.”

“Then you are not so evil as you would think,” Eomer said comfortably, “though I would ask how you would have done such a thing.”

“One of my uncle’s supporters gave me a vial of a poison made from raw almonds. It would be undetectable if anyone looked for a cause of death.”

Eomer sat up a little thinking before looking back at Lothiriel’s shame-laden face. She had made it clear not only to him that she had felt no control over her life before she left Minas Tirith, and he wondered for a moment if it would have been hard for her to leave her uncle’s house, or if that attempted poisoning had been some breaking point in what Lothiriel could stand. He wondered if returning would be harder for those reasons, and for the fact that she had not had permission to leave in the first place.

He took a breath, and turned her face to him with gentle fingers, “Do you mean to carry on doing what your uncle would bid you to? Do you mean to go on acting as you did before?”

“I do not want to, but I…” she looked down a moment, beginning to pull free of his grasp but stopped herself slowly meeting Eomer’s eye, “What do I do if I cannot get myself out from my uncle’s keeping?”

“Does he keep such a close watch on you as that?” Eomer asked, trying to determine what level of influence someone could have over Lothiriel to bend her will. He had not seen much in her that left him with the impression that she would be easy to control. Her temper was quick, and her impulses, while hopefully not dangerous, were certainly just as quick.

She nodded, and for a moment she actually looked afraid.

“Lothiriel,” he said slowly, releasing his hold on her, but keeping his eyes firmly on hers, “I do not know how to ask what I mean to, and I would ask for honesty from you.”

There was something almost hard in her eyes suddenly, not liking the inference in the dark tone, “My uncle, I think, wanted my marriage with Boromir because it would keep me in his house and in his keeping. He has always been fond of me and has given me every comfort. I think my father gave me over to his care some years past and as such he would be like a foster father to me. He is a lonely, and sad man.”

Eomer nodded his understanding, “I have ensured Caelon’s comfort as well.”

Lothiriel’s eyes widened at him and his words, her brow raised a fraction, “Oh, yes?”

“I should think anyone would be fond of their pets,” Eomer almost smiled at the look that she gave him, noting the strange smile on her face. “they give life a sense of meaning, a companionship that should be valued.”

She pushed his shoulder with hers, shaking her head, “If I did not know that you are given to making such poor jests as that, I would have taken offence.”

Eomer smiled, looking at her and trying not to voice the thought at the back of his mind.

“If I tell you something, will you keep it secret?” Lothiriel asked in a quiet voice, already knowing the answer he would give, but needing the assurance.

“I would,” he said, wondering what else she would tell him with a morbid fascination.

“Lord Denethor married my father’s sister Finduilas and he loved her dearly,” she said, “and from what I have been told, her death changed him. He drew into himself and pushed away those that might have helped him,” she paused a moment before going on, meaning to assure him that it was not as despicable as it might sound, or he might think, “I think he sees me more as a child than anything else.”

He shook his head, “You cannot go back.”

“Your uncle is a kind man, and he offered me sanctuary for as long as I needed it, and that he would ensure my safety.”

“Then that solves it. You will stay here in Edoras, and if Lord Denethor tries to force you back, I would protect you from such a fate as that.”

“And all would be well until my uncle sends men to take me,” she said, smiling a little sadly, “would you start a war then?”

“To protect you, I would.”

“I would not want you to, you silly, dramatic man,” she chuckled, taking his hand, “but it is a sweet gesture, dear.”

His fingers wrapped around her hand, “If Lord Aragorn takes the throne, there will be little enough that Denethor will be able to do.”

“I do not know Lord Aragorn well enough to guess at his future actions, but I think that he is a man of honor, and that he might wish more for a peaceful transition of power. If I am right, the steward would be meant to be a helper to a king, and I do not know that Lord Aragorn would dismiss Denethor from the position outright.”

“But if he did, Lord Aragorn could then appoint someone else, could he not?”

“But again, if he wants things to progress smoothly, he might not be able to do so,” she said, a little exasperated.

“Then we might petition Lord Aragorn when he is crowned to allow you to leave,” Eomer said, wanting to explain to her that there was always something to do.

“That might work,” Lothiriel said, unconvinced, but not wanting to weigh Eomer’s mind than she already had. She smiled at him a moment before she leaned over and rested her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes a little as she did.

Eomer wrapped his arm around her gently and rested his cheek on the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair and trying to calm the rage that he had tried to keep checked. He did not want to scare her or make her think that he was some brute.

Her hand rested over his heart, and she could feel it pounding in his chest. There had to be something that could be done, some way to make her uncle release her from his service and from his care. At the moment that seemed to her far more pressing a challenge that gaining her father’s blessing. If she could find a way to remove that obstacle it would still be a challenge but would at least be a little simpler.

Eomer pressed a kiss to the top of her head, “It will be alright,” he said quietly, smoothing the back of her fingers over her shoulder, “I promise you.”

She wanted to believe his promise in the stupid way that it might be true if she could believe him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter, but it's fluffy and a little angsty! Enjoy!
> 
> Warning: This chapter contains references to child abuse.

“You really needn’t help,” Eowyn said, sorting through Theodred’s clothes. She would have a distant look in her eyes from time to time before she pulled herself back to the task at hand. Theodred’s things were organized well for the most part, and they would be moved into storage, as no one was certain that they wanted to throw anything away or donate anything, not yet.

“I have nothing else to do currently,” Lothiriel said, more wanting to ensure that Eowyn was alright as she went through this process, knowing that it would be trying for her. For her part, Lothiriel needed to keep her hands busy.

“I appreciate the help,” Eowyn smiled sadly, “Eomer offered, but I doubt he would in truth be of much use.”

“Why?”

“Because Eomer would probably start crying,” Eowyn said as if that was obvious, “and once he starts, it is hard to make him stop.”

“I am not certain if that is a joke…?”

Eowyn’s face did not answer the question as she folded another tunic and set it in a trunk, “You know, I would guess that you and Theodred would have been friends.”

“Do you? I mean I am perfectly charming,” Lothiriel teased, pulling a few more articles of clothing out of an armoire and set them on the bed.

“I doubt that lot has fit him in years. I love my cousin, but did he ever get rid of anything?” Eowyn said, joking sadly.

Something hit the floor behind Lothiriel’s steps, and she went to set the armfuls of clothing on the bed before looking back to see what she had dropped. It was small, and out of place.

Lothiriel stooped to pick up the small wooden doll with a polished and painted face with carved hair painted brown. It wasn’t worn or damaged beyond a few little dings to the face, but that seemed normal enough.

“What is that?” Eowyn asked.

“A doll…” Lothiriel said. It looked familiar somehow. It felt as if something was prodding at the back of her head, “Why would he have a Gondorian toy?”

Eowyn watched her friend carefully. She did not know the details, being only seven or so when they had visited Gondor last. It had been just after their parents… after Theoden had adopted her brother and her.

They had been dragged to Lossarnach to meet their grandmother, which was a mixed bag, in her opinion, before they went on to Minas Tirith. Her uncle had needed to meet with Lord Denethor about something and quite a few of the Princes were in attendance. There had been something about Prince Imrahil’s family that had upset her cousin, she remembered, but had never heard the whole story, but she vaguely remembered him trying to introduce her to a very young child, almost half her age. Eowyn had not been in the mood to watch the tiny princess and had made every excuse she could to spend her time alone and to be able to grieve.

She remembered that Theodred had tried to introduce Eomer to some of the boys that were close to his age, but he had been in a similar position, and had not made much headway.

Lothiriel went a little rigid as she stared ahead of her.

“Are you alright?” Eowyn asked.

“Would you pardon me for a moment?” Lothiriel said quietly.

“Yes, of course,” Eowyn watched as Lothiriel went from the room, her face blank.

Lothiriel almost ran the short distance and closed the door behind herself.

She wanted the headache to abate, and to make the memories stop. She hated when things came back that quickly, especially when they made her more and more certain that she was a damaged mess of a person.

0x0x0

_Minas Tirith_

_3002 TA_

_Theodred rolled over to look at his lover, smiling a little before brushing a few curly locks of hair out of Boromir’s eyes. “I have been considering running away,” he said in a teasing conspiratorial voice._

_“Have you?” Boromir smiled, “Where would we go?”_

_“I will be entirely honest I have not gotten that far,” Theodred smiled, resting his head on his hand, “but somewhere with a garden. You would be able to start your flower shop.”_

_Boromir let out a sigh, “It would not be as easy as that, and you know it.”_

_“I know, but we can pretend it would be,” Theodred sat up, resting against the headboard and reaching for the goblet of wine,” I have always wanted to have my own goats.”_

_“They are not as fun as you think,” Boromir laughed, trying to imagine Theodred not worrying over the animals in the winter and bringing the lot of them into the house._

_“Oh, but they are adorable!”_

_Boromir laughed, “You are a soft touch, aren’t you?”_

_“You can never tell a soul!” Theodred’s flair for dramatics kicked in, as if his sensitivity was a secret._

_“Of course not,” Boromir leaned over and kissed Theodred, smiling._

_“What does your father think we are doing?” Theodred asked suddenly._

_“Oh, that we are young friends and bachelors, drinking and sharing stories not fit for society,” Boromir smirked._

_“You know your dear Auntie is in a similar position to us,” Theodred said smirking._

_“Not this again.”_

_“How long has Ivriniel had that lovely companion living with her?”_

_“They were school mates,” Boromir said, shaking his head at the idea, “they have been close since they were seventeen. Apparently, they both felt that no one else understood them and… Oh!”_

_Theodred chuckled, almost certain that he could see the puzzle pieces fitting together in Boromir’s mind, “Come here, you,” he leaned close, kissing Boromir._

_The knocking sound made them leap apart, panic-stricken and reaching for their clothes before Boromir began to chuckle._

_“What?” Theodred asked, still not certain what was so amusing._

_“Put your clothes on. It sounds like my cousin,” Boromir laughed, pulling a tunic on quickly and doing his trousers up as he went through to the sitting room._

_“Can you be more specific?” Theodred’s mind went through how each of Imrahil’s children would react to this if they saw them in a compromising position. None of the reactions he could imagine would be what he would call understanding. Gondorians were prudish to start with, but Boromir and him… that would be something different entirely._

_“The baby,” Boromir smiled, “She likely had a nightmare. Her father loves her, but he is hardly the warm and affectionate type.” He went to the door, shaking his head at the return of the small, open hand smacking against the wood of the door. He stooped down to her eye-level as he opened the door, “Did you have a bad dream, dear girl?”_

_Lothiriel stared back at him with wide eyes, shaking her head a moment before nodding, she whispered, “but I had an accident…” she clung to a doll’s arm, her little knuckles were pale with tension._

_“Well, let us get Lady Neithariel_ _out of bed to help you,” Boromir said, standing and reaching to take her hand._

_“No!” Lothiriel cried, beginning to shake a little, “She will be angry.”_

_Theodred watched from the door to the bedroom for a moment before crossing over to the small girl, and stooping, “What if I help you wash up, and your cousin will go get you a clean nightgown and clean up your… accident.”_

_Lothiriel clung to Boromir’s hand and hid in part behind his leg, “Hello, Funny Man.”_

_“Hello, Your Highness,” Theodred stood back up and bowed dramatically flopping himself forward._

_She let out a little giggle, coming out from behind Boromir and curtsying awkwardly._

_“I thank you,” Boromir mouthed, smiling over Lothiriel’s head as the little girl took Theodred’s hand before Theodred scooped her carefully up and bouncing her a little on his forearm._

_“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Theodred said in a gentle voice, noticing the little flinch Lothiriel gave. “There is some water for the bath, but it might be cool.”_

_“’S alright,” Lothiriel said quietly as he set her down by the tub, holding her arms up over her head._

_Shaking his head a little, Theodred helped the little girl undress and put her carefully into the tub to clean her. The cold water didn’t seem to upset her too much, and at first, he was a little concerned, but that grew to something else when she turned her back to him to sit on the edge of the tub._

_“Lothiriel, what are these marks on your back from?” Theodred asked, looking over the bruises, some old and healing and some fresh._

_She looked back a moment, chewing her lip, “I am bad and wicked…”_

_“Who told you that.”_

_“Neithariel…”_

_Theodred jaw shifted a little, as he washed her, careful not to apply pressure to the fresh bruises on her legs, “You are not.”_

_Her wide pale eyes stared at him._

_“Did she do this?” Theodred asked, carefully looking at her quivering chin, “You can tell me.”_

_She shook her head, trembling a little._

_“It is not your fault, and if someone is hurting you, you need to tell someone, your father, or…” Theodred watched her, her gaze shifting away from him._

_Theodred carefully helped her out of the tub and dried her off with a towel before dropping the cloth on her head for a moment and lifting it, “What are you doing?” he asked completely mystified, dropping the towel on her head again. “Your Highness, this is not appropriate behavior at all!”_

_She giggled at the silly game, “Stop!”_

_“I am not doing anything, Your Highness!” Theodred dropped the towel on her head again, and lifting it, “You should be getting ready for bed rather than playing.” He bundled her up in the towel, smiling back at her._

_Boromir watched quietly for a moment before either noticed him standing there, “An accident indeed, there was little enough of a mess, I doubt you would have been in much trouble at all,” he said, trying to make her feel better but only receiving a stony look from the four-year-old. “Alright, arms up.”_

_Redressed in a clean nightdress, Lothiriel wrapped her arms around Theodred’s neck as he carried her over to Boromir’s bed and tucked her carefully in._

_“You can sleep here, and you will be safe. I promise,” Theodred said gently, picking up her doll, “Pardon me, my lady, I fear we have not been introduced. What is your name?” He held the doll up to his ear, before pulling back, “I am terribly sorry, I cannot hear.”_

_“That’s Formess,” Lothiriel said smiling._

_“A lovely name, my lady,” he bowed his head over the doll’s little wooden hand, “Is she your very good friend?”_

_She nodded, “I have a lot of dolls.”_

_“Do you?” Theodred asked, smiling._

_“Yes, but she is broken, see,” Lothiriel pointed at the dent on the side of her face, “Do you have a very good friend?”_

_“I have one.”_

_“You can have another… if you want.”_

_“May I?” he asked, “You can never have too many friends.”_

_She took the doll and held it up to her ear, “Formess says she wants to go live with you.”_

_“Does she?” Theodred smiled, watching Lothiriel._

_“She says you’re nice,” she held the doll out to him, “and she wants to be safe all the time._

_“You can keep her for now,” Theodred said, smiling through his rage, “I think she is tired, and might want to have some rest.”_

_Lothiriel wrapped her arm around the doll’s body, giving her silent assent to this agreement._

_He ran a hand over her head, humming a little, and watching the little girl until her eyes started to droop._

_“You seem perfectly comfortable with children,” Boromir whispered next to his ear._

_The look Theodred turned on him was fierce for a long moment before he looked back at the sleeping child and pointed to the other room._

_“You must speak with your uncle,” Theodred said in the whispering equivalent of a scream._

_“What about?” Boromir asked, refilling their cups, using the same level of volume in his voice, “Lothiriel had an accident. She is little, and they are prone to such things.”_

_“That governess is beating her.”_

_Boromir took a breath, and settled into a chair, “I know that your folk like to let children run wild, but unfortunately that is not how things are done here, love. And Lothiriel is sweet, but she can be a handful.”_

_“Have you seen her back?” Theodred asked._

_“No.”_

_“She is covered in bruises, and as you said, she is a child. They are meant to be handfuls!” Theodred whispered back, “They should not look like mottled cloth because of it!”_

_Boromir frowned, looking into his cup before taking a long drink. It had been such a lovely evening, too. “It is a family matter.” He reached for the wine but was too slow._

_“Then you are not going to get involved? Why? Because it is better to keep quiet than to upset anyone? I forgot how Gondorians hate to make others uncomfortable.” Theodred held the bottle up, ready to smash the damn distraction on the floor._

_“Do not start-”_

_“You do not tell me what to do. You handle this woman, or I will,” Theodred said, his eyes glinting with rage, “That little girl is going to grow up certain that no one cared about her, and she will not trust to anyone’s affections. Is that what you want for her?”_

_Boromir did his best not to narrow his eyes, “I will speak with my uncle. But I warn you, I likely will not find a moment until after this visit.”_

_Theodred stared at him._

_“My father does not want any… inconveniences.”_

_“Well, let the girl be abused for a few more days, then. I would hate to disrupt your father’s plans,” Theodred said, his sarcasm biting as he dropped into his chair._

0x0x0

Edoras

3019 TA

Lothiriel stood up and set the doll on the vanity, shaking a little still and taking a few breaths went back to help Eowyn, a smile plastered on her face as she folded and sorted the clothes of someone that had made her feel safe for a few moments.

0x0x0

Kicking her feet in the air, Lothiriel sat with more comfort than she likely ought to have on Eomer’s bed, petting Caelon’ head as he rested it on her knee. The smell of linseed oil filled the room as Eomer polished his armor. The door was left open to discourage any more gossip than there would already be.

Her life had been coming back to her in snatches, but the memories were coming back with more frequently, almost painfully at times. She wasn’t sure that the pain was purely physical, or if she was only feeling what she had at the time of her memories. It could be that her mind was forcing itself to remember everything at once, whether good or bad.

She smiled at him and his diligent work for a moment, getting every nook and groove of the leather covering. She tried to remember where she was and that nothing in her past could hurt her more than it had already. Probably…

She paused in her thoughts a moment before she said, “Do not forget to oil the bindings and ties. They get more wear than you might think.”

Eomer looked up at her suddenly, “Of course they do.”

She looked back at the dog’s shaggy head, and gave his ear another scratch, feeling Eomer studying her. She smiled down at Caelon as he began to wag his tail. It was in retrospect a silly thing for her to have said, and she felt a little embarrassed.

“Do you know much of armor, then?” he asked, surprised by her words.

“No, not in truth. Faramir, Boromir’s brother is a ranger, and he did not usually have anyone to help him mind his own armor, and I have tried to be helpful where I may be. Oiling his leathers is the only thing that I could do, in truth, to be of much use.”

“You are nothing if not helpful,” Eomer said with the same wry tone he always used to tease her while maintaining his façade of grumpy indifference. He wondered if she thought that not being useful rendered her useless, if she felt that she had to earn every ounce affection given to her. It made his heart hurt a little to think about it.

Lothiriel made a face at him before smiling, “I certainly try to be.”

He smiled back at her, “Perhaps I ought to keep you away from my sister.”

“You think I would be a bad influence on her?”

“Yes, but not in the way you might think,” he said after a moment of thought, “she has always wanted to be remembered in song and in legend, but she does not know what the cost of those things would be.” There was sadness in his eyes as he spoke.

“It is easy to hear of valor in battle, but rather a different thing to see it,” Lothiriel said, after a moment she went on, “I have some medical training, and have on occasion volunteered when we did not have enough healers. You would hope to protect her from those things?”

“Yes, she is my sister,” he replied as if the question was as stupid as it would be to most people.

“I have not been that close with my own brothers in years, I think,” if she ever had been in truth. She smiled and feeling bittersweet at the realization, “I do not know that any of them would be so worried for me.”

Elphir had always been the peacekeeper, and likely annoyed by her antics. Erchirion had been the clown and was the closest to her because he seemed to forgive everything. Amrothos and she scrapped the most because he thought that he was funny, but then he had the same insecurities that she had but had for the most part seemed to be able to rise above them. Her brothers had been protective of her in a way that felt… perfunctory, as if it was something they did because they had to do it, not because they actually worried about her safety. She had done little to inspire such loyalty.

“They would be,” he said with certainty. He thought for a moment at the way that she had been transplanted from one side of her family to another. Had her father sent her to school and then sent her to her uncle’s house without any sense that she was missed? The more she told him of her family, the more questions he had, but was not certain that he should ask, or if he should let her tell him in her own time, “When was the last time you were home?”

“To Dol Amroth?” she asked trying to keep her voice light, “I try to take a few weeks there in the summer and in the winter. It is odd I know, to be a stranger in my father’s house, but it made things easier for him.” She had not gone this winter, and her stay had been short the summer before.

Eomer set the breast plate aside and wiped his hands on the polishing cloth, his brow furrowed a little. He had lost his parents young enough to have needed them still and supposed that she had as well in a way. His own life hadn’t been easy, but he had always had his family’s support, and care. To think her family didn’t care a pin for her, was abnormal to his understanding of life. He wondered how her mother had died.

“I should think you would have someone to do that for you,” she said gesturing to the armor, trying to stop him from pitying her too much or asking more questions. She could already see that cloud rolling in behind his eyes.

She wondered if she had spoken too much, and if he would decide that she was too damaged, or that she came with too many troubles for one as young as she was. She wondered if at some point he would nod, pat her on the back and send her on her way. They had only been spending time together alone for two days and already she had unloaded so much trauma on him, but not all of it. She had not yet told him that she remembered meeting Theodred in some small way. She remembered giving him her doll, and she remembered him humming her to sleep, and telling her that she would be safe. Eomer likely would barely remember her or that visit at all, it was so long ago.

“I do, but I prefer to see to my things myself,” he said, standing and coming to look at her, “I like to assure that things are done right.”

“Do you?” she smiled up at him almost coy.

“Indeed,” he smiled a little, leaning his weight against a chest of drawers looking at her with a strange expression, making her feel almost like a rabbit caught in a snare. It was exhilarating.

“What?” she asked, feeling a little nervous at the look.

“Just a thought I had,” he said with a little awkwardness, looking down at the floorboards, and hoping that studying the woodgrain would clear his mind.

“What was it?”

He shook his head a little, not certain that he should say, or if she would think him boorish if he told her that he liked the idea of her in his bed. Still, he smirked to himself at the ideas that came to him unbidden.

It was not that he was a hedonist or a womanizer. These sorts of invasive thoughts typically only came on when he was interested in a lady, then he would have a hell of a time trying to stop thinking about taking that woman to bed. Normally that was not a problem, but Lothiriel was a young virgin from a culture that he considered repressed beyond sense.

“Well? Go on.”

He looked up at her, softening the smile from wolfish to kindly trying not to frighten her, “That you look perfectly at home,” was the safest way that he could think to say it.

“I feel safe in here, I think. In Edoras, not in your bed, I mean.” She felt her whole face redden slowly.

“I should hope you would more than think that,” Eomer crossed his arms over his chest, studying her again, chuckling, “I should hope that you would know that you are safe in both places.”

Her mind reeled for a dizzying moment, and she was not certain how she was meant to keep her composure after those words, “I know. There is… I almost want to stay here,” she admitted, letting the implication hang, not wanting to stumble through the correction of her meaning again, especially when she considered the rapid beating in her chest.

He smiled, crossing to her and nudging Caelon out of the way. With gentle fingers, he tilted her chin up to him. Stroking his fingers over her cheek carefully, he felt that need to protect her come on again. He kissed her for a moment before resting his brow against hers for a moment. “I would like it if you could.”

She grinned up at him for a moment, feeling tingly all over, before trying to compose her features a little bit and almost certain that she was failing, “Well, I would not want to displease you, my lord.”

“I am going to kiss you again,” he smirked down at her, resting his hands on either side of her on the coverlet, shoving down a few of his impulses that had begun to rear up. He just wanted a kiss.

Lothiriel shot a quick look at the door, wanting to be certain that no one was passing before looking back up at him, “Well, if you must.”

“I must,” he replied with a low voice, leaning in a little, “I simply cannot allow you to sit there looking so lovely and not kiss you.”

“No?” she giggled biting her lip a little as he leaned closer to her.

“No,” he smiled back, tilting his head a little.

His kiss was gentle and she liked it so terribly much, even if she was still becoming accustomed to his beard. Smiling against his lips, she closed her eyes and let herself savor the quick jolting thrill that went through her into the pit of her stomach. She slid her hands up his arms, anchoring herself against him.

It was the small surprised sound that pulled them quickly apart, both of them turning to look at who had happened into the room.

Boromir held his hand up over his eyes, “I beg your pardon, I was just… Lothiriel… Lunch?” He smiled awkwardly from what she could see, before backing out of the room slowly, “I shall just wait out here. Carry on.”

As soon as Boromir was gone, Eomer closed his eyes on his irritation letting out a slow breath through his nose, “Would you miss him terribly if he encountered some accident?” he whispered by her ear.

Lothiriel swatted his arm, “Yes.”

“Fine, I will spare him,” Eomer whispered again, kissing her cheek quickly before offering her his hand, to help her up. As she passed him, he felt his hand moving without thought to tug on the end of her braid.

She shot him a look but saw him smiling sheepishly back at her. Checking that Boromir was out of the line of sight she turned back into Eomer’s arms and pulled him down to kiss him again.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys, this chapter is going to be much lighter! Enjoy.
> 
> Also, if anyone is interested, I just started a tumblog where I'm putting all my fanart. You can find it at: https://fortheorlinga.tumblr.com/
> 
> Enjoy!

“There is a rather important matter that I wanted to discuss with you,” Boromir said, looking down at his hands, as if trying to decide how to go on. He had for the most part planned out everything else that he had to tell her but starting he had never been able to work out. He also hadn’t quite been able to plan for her objections, which he assumed would be numerous.

“Is everything alright?” Lothiriel asked, worried that he had heard something from home, that something had happened.

“There is a chance that I might need to return to Minas Tirith, it may take a few days at least to muster the forces here,” Boromir said, “if the beacons are lit, I must ride ahead to see what has happened. Your father asked that I ensure your safety, and I am certain that you would be safe here.”

Lothiriel nodded, “I would ask you to be safe, but I know it is a hard request to make, all things considering.”

Boromir nodded, smirking a little, “I wanted to ask if you would return with me.”

“I absolutely will not,” she almost yelled, “I left for my safety, and I will not be leaping back into the frying pan, thank you very much!”

“I assumed so,” his smile turned wry, watching her temper flare.

“And I am not even certain that I ought to return until you speak to your father and ensure that he is not going to send me to a convent of some house for the insane, or worse!”

“A wise decision,” Boromir tried to check his smile as his cousin ranted over him.

“I know that if your father calls me home, I will have little reason to offer against such a thing, but I certainly doubt that my going back at present would do me any good-”

“Lothiriel,” Boromir stopped her before she went into a panic, “I had not expected you to come.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, “You are an irritating fool, you know that?”

“I am quite aware,” he smiled a little softer. She carried of the haughtiness well, and it was a little amusing to him. It reminded him more of a small child throwing a tantrum, but it wasn’t quite that, “But that brings us to it. If you are meaning to stay here, you will undoubtedly continue stay at Meduseld, until such a time that the Rohirrim will leave for war. Is that a fair assessment?”

“It would be,” Lothiriel said, suspicion slipping into her voice.

“Which is where the young man that you have recently become involved with is also staying.”

“I do not think that I like where this conversation is going.”

“All I am saying that you are young and in love, and-”

“I am not certain that I am in love with Eomer,” Lothiriel interrupted, certainly not liking where this conversation was going. It rarely boded well if Boromir was being direct rather than giving in to poetics.

“Fine, semantics aside, you both at young, and you like each other, quite a bit clearly,” Boromir said, waving his hand, “I will not be here to supervise or chaperone you.”

“Is that what you have been doing?” Lothiriel smirked.

“If anyone in the family asks, yes I have been,” Boromir smiled looking at her significantly, “and I have certainly not let the pair of you be alone, and I certainly did not walk into his chambers and find the pair of you embracing, and you certainly were not sitting on his bed.”

Lothiriel nodded, still a little embarrassed at having been caught in that exact situation, “That is likely wise. I think that my person will be inspected if and when I return to Gondor.”

“There are ways around that,” Boromir said with a casual tone, sitting back a little, “Which brings us to what I had wanted to talk to you about.”

“Please do not,” Lothiriel begged, “I will be a good, and chaste girl, I promise, if it will avoid this.”

“Oh, pish, you are as I said young, and would be left without much supervision, and if something were to happen between you tow, it would hardly be the first time that something like that had ever occurred.”

“I suppose…” she said, staring at him before telling him a bald-faced lie, “but I have not given it much thought.”

“Well, when in Rohan…” Boromir said, pulling some sheets of paper from a drawer, “now, I have compiled some information that I would consider useful to you, as I do not imagine your education has given you any such knowledge.”

Lothiriel stared at the pages held out to her, not certain that she wanted to take them, “I think I am quite alright, cousin…”

Boromir gave her a careful look before taking her hand and forcing her to take the pages. “Now, where to begin…”

“We could not begin, and I could take these and promise to read them?” She had no such intention, and it became quickly apparent that Boromir knew so.

“How much do you know about the physical expression of passion.”

Her face felt hot, “I have a basic understanding.”

Boromir raised his brows waiting for her to go on.

She pressed her face into her hands, wanting to disappear with her embarrassment and never have to say another word on the topic, especially not to him.

“There is nothing to be embarrassed about,” Boromir said, sympathetically amused, “it is perfectly natural.”

“Then why would I need to be educated,” her voice came out muffled from behind her hands, “if it is so natural?”

“I just want to ensure we are not going to be expecting any babies before it would be appropriate, and I know that when two people like each other, it can be quite difficult to keep one’s hands to one’s self,” Boromir explained gently, feeling a little put out that Lothiriel was not taking the offered information, and with seriousness. He tugged one of her hands down to look at her mortified face, “Though you both would make very interesting children, and I am intrigued to see what you two would spawn.”

“Well, I am certainly not ready for… that,” she said pulling her hand out of his.

“Of course, you are not, dear girl,” he said, not entirely certain that he believed her, but figuring that going along with her on anything she said was likely the right choice, “Though if we are being entirely honest, if you did get with child there would be nothing our family would be able to do to stop a marriage,” he said, the idea coming to him as he said it.

She smacked at his arm, a few times, her face screwed up in rage-filled embarrassment. When she felt that her honor was satisfied, she sat back and smoothed a hand over her hair to calm the loose hairs that might have come loose.

“Alright, so we will keep that plan for the absolute most dire need then,” Boromir winced, shifting his arm a little.

“No.”

“Fine,” he smirked a little, “Let us return to our task at hand then.”

“I will pay you whatever sum you deem appropriate to not.”

“You are most amusing, cousin.”

She flipped through the pages, “Why are there diagrams?”

“Because I could not figure out how to explain the female reproductive system without visual aids!” Boromir said, exasperated.

She stared at the mass of blobs that he had clearly been proud of, “I… appreciate that? But I already know that aspect of… this topic,” why was she in this situation? Had her life not been marred enough by dismal experience that this needed to happen to her as well?

“Well you likely do, but let us begin at the beginning,” Boromir smiled, “When two people care very much about each other, sometimes they show that in different ways…”

Staring at him, she did her best to block out what he was saying unless she was required to answer. It was meant to be a casual midday meal, Lothiriel considered the many options that would remove her from the lecture she was in the middle of being given. She hated little as much as she had hated the entire last hour of her life.

“You are not taking this seriously,” Boromir looked up from another botched illustration, “This is important!”

“Undoubtedly.”

He pursed his lips, “Well then I suppose I will not bother to explain the ways by which one can avoid pregnancy!”

“Honestly, that would still be an undoubted horrific talk, but might have been the only piece of information that would have been in anyway helpful!” she hastily added, “If I was inclined to engage in such activities as you have detailed.”

The small pieces of information that had lodged in her mind left her with more questions, but she was not going to ask her cousin any of them. He had skipped from anatomy to some very interesting ideas about what the human body could do, though perhaps interesting was the wrong word considering the source. He had gone into some strange ideas about things having to do with hands and with mouths, and while she had considered the nebulous idea of her own… wants… but she did not want to have to quantify them, even to herself.

“Finally, some interest! You know this pamphlet was not easy to create,” Boromir went on, “If you turn to page twelve-” he looked up and caught sight of her face, staring out through the window. “What is it?” he turned to look.

There, over the ridge of the mountains, a slow trail of fires burned, a trickling gold and orange crest of flames and pleading.

“Oh…” Boromir said, ashen faced and grim suddenly.

“I thought there would be more time…” Lothiriel said, standing beside him and taking his hand in hers. “I have been asking for a distraction, but this is not what I meant.”

They ran after Lord Aragorn as he went to alert the court to the beacons, Lothiriel doing her best to keep up, and failing a little. Her legs ached as she ran, her skirts picked up in her fists. There had been some debate as to whether or not the Riddermark would ride to aid Gondor, a thing that she considered obvious from what little she knew of Theoden King.

She stood in almost a numbed state watching as the decision was finally made and Boromir pressed her shoulder for a moment before pulling her close.

“I will see you soon, cousin,” he said, hugging her close, “we will make the city free of this invasion.”

“I beg you to not take any undue risks,” she said, smiling as best she could until he left her, and she considered how many people she stood to lose. She turned carefully, trying to steel herself to find some way to be helpful.

Eomer’s gaze met her for a moment, and she smiled sadly, wanting to run to him, but knowing that such a thing would be indecorous at the very least. It was a relief that he came to her.

“I will need to go,” he said in a low voice, taking her hand gently in his.

“I know,” she replied, not realizing that she was trembling until his hand stilled hers a fraction. She looked at their hands for a moment, taking in the way his hand felt holding her so carefully and so warm before she looked up into his face.

“I will see you at Dunharrow?” That soft look that was almost a smile was firmly in place, offering her comfort in the fact that they would see each other soon.

“Of course,” Lothiriel tried to smile, “I will see you in three days. Please, I beg you to be safe.”

He smiled, “I am not on a dangerous mission, princess.” ‘Not yet’ hung unsaid between them, making her heart ache just a little.

Lothiriel shot a quick look around to be certain no one was paying them much attention before she gave his cheek a quick kiss, before she whispered, “Three days, and I had better see you unharmed.”

Eomer bowed his head, smiling a little as he released her hand from his keep and went from her.

She did not know where to go for a moment, the sudden wash of fear overpowering her senses for a moment and she left the hall to take the air outside until she could calm herself a little before going back to help the ladies sort out what the soldiers would need, and to bring with them to the encampment and sort her own little box of possessions.

Her brothers would be with the Gondorian Army. Her father would likely be defending Dol Amroth from the corsair raids that she knew had been increasing in their frequency. Faramir had been in Ithilien the last she had heard, but if the beacons had been lit, he would have been drawn back to Osgiliath unless it would have fallen, and then to Minas Tirith, if he had survived. Boromir was running back to Minas Tirith. Her uncle would likely be bunkering down if her assumption was correct, and she had no idea of his mental state since she had left. And Eomer was going to ride to war in a few days.

The list of people that she was at risk of losing grew piece by piece and now, as she stared for a moment at her reflection in the metal mirror of her small room, she realized that if Theoden King or Eomer fell in the battle, she would likely lose their offer of protection, thin as it was. Put into the bargain that she was becoming more and more certain that she was falling in love with Eomer.

It was easier for her to consider the losses as abstracts, or as if they were numbers on her ledger sheets, but she was not certain that if she lost any of these people, she would be able to be so analytical about it.

There were days when getting out of bed was hard, but still she did it because she had to. Genuine loss might actually break her this time.

0x0x0

Boromir paused in tacking up his borrowed horse a moment and jerked his head at Lord Eomer who was in the middle of the same work a few stalls away. There was a quick flash of irritation in Lord Eomer’s eyes, but Boromir would not fault him that.

“Yes, my lord?” Lord Eomer asked, politely.

“I wanted a quick word before I leave, and I am sorry for… I thought there would be at least a little more time, and that I would find a moment to speak with you,” Boromir said in a low voice.

“What about?” Eomer asked, his face impassive, but he had a small suspicion as to the topic. Had their roles been revered Eomer would certainly want to have a word with Lord Boromir, more than one.

Boromir smiled sympathetically, “Lothiriel’s person will be examined when she returns home.”

The horrors of that statement made Eomer’s eyes widen a fraction, “In what way?”

Boromir’s answer to that question was a look of teasing disdain before he went on, “I know you both find each other attractive and that there is a good deal of fondness between you. I know too, that it is none of my business. I only speak out of warning. My cousin is unmarried, and if she is found to no longer be a maiden, it would not go well for her.”

“I understand,” Eomer nodding through how invasive the forementioned inspection sounded. He had heard of such things, but had assumed that it was a rumor born of dislike and distrust of their southern neighbors and their ways, “I swear on my honor that there has been no-”

“That is not why I am saying this,” Boromir smiled again, patting Eomer’s arm, “again, it is no concern of mine. Whatever you two do, just ensure that she keeps her maidenhead, please. If she is found to not be intact… oh, I do not want the headache that would create.” He ran a hand over his face, just imagining the fight there would be, all the screaming and judgements, and his little cousin’s good name would be dragged through the mud. Not that she would be the only young lady in Gondor that had engaged in such activities. War changed the way that people interacted. It made life so much more precious and made social boundaries a little less so. If death seemed certain, why not take what comforts left in the days before the end?

If Lothiriel was of a lower family, it would not be of such concern, but she was daughter of a prince. Her body belonged to Gondor, and for the purposes of diplomacy and politics, it could not be seen as damaged by anyone. Boromir had never given much thought to how insulting it was, but it was the way of things.

Eomer stood, staring and wondering why on earth was Boromir telling him this. And beyond the strangeness of the request how was he saying it so casually? And his priorities seemed entirely warped on this topic. He was not asking Eomer to forestall bedding his younger cousin out of protection or a sense of concern, but rather out of what other people would think of her if he did do such a thing.

Trying to assure himself that Boromir was only being so glib out of a certainty that Lothiriel was able to take care of herself, or that he trusted Eomer, and that this warning was not… whatever it seemed, Eomer bowed his head, “I am going to…” he gestured vaguely to Firefoot.

“Of course!” Boromir nodded, “I will see you at Minas Tirith, my friend.”

“Safe travels,” Eomer called back doing his best not to run across the stables like a man far younger than himself would have done after that conversation. He had not intended to act any differently than what Lord Boromir had requested, his own desires aside. It was a little galling to have his intentions requested, and the more rebellious part of his mind wanted him to act contrary to those intentions on principle.

His brief moment of farewell from Lothiriel was not enough, but time was against them, and he knew she understood.

0x0x0

The travel to Dunharrow was a little slow, as they rode in caravan with the makings of the King’s camp. It would take them three days just to get to the encampment and while Lothiriel was not particularly eager to farewell Eomer and Theoden King to war, she had the pressing understanding that time was being lost. The War Horses could make better time than any other animal, but how long would it take them to arrive in Minas Tirith? She understood that the entire army needed to join together for any chance at victory, but she felt as if time was moving against them all.

She shared a tent with Eowyn on the long drudge, it having been a simple enough thing for the two princesses to share accommodation, by their status and by the fact that they were close enough by that point that it did not seem an invasion of space or privacy for either of them.

Theoden was aware that he should not eavesdrop on them, and he carefully did not, but any time he heard them giggling, he felt a sudden curiosity at what they were discussing. But they were young, and Eowyn actually seemed her age for the first time in years and it warmed his heart a little to hear the pair of them laughing at anything.

0x0x0

Eomer sat by the campfire, trying to savor the quiet sounds of nature around them. They would make it to Dunharrow the next day before noon, and he was not looking forward to the battle that was coming for them, but the silver lining on that cloud was that he would be able to see Lothiriel for whatever small amount of time that they would have. It was a stupid thing to focus on, but he had gotten used to trying to find some positive aspects of everything in his life.

He bit back a little irritation as Eothain sat beside him, he wanted to sit in silence at present and not have to talk.

Holding out a wineskin, Eothain smiled, knowing Eomer’s moods at a glance, and deciding to trample it for a moment, “So… how are you?”

“Fine,” Eomer said, taking a drink and wondering what Eothain was up to. He could feel the mischievous intent rolling off of him, “a little tired but, fine.”

“How is the princess?” Eothain asked in a low voice before laughing at the slow murderous look on his friend’s face.

“I do not think I like what you are inferring.”

Eothain held a hand up, trying to stop himself from laughing again, “I am certain you have been a perfect gentleman.”

“If there was anything to tell you, I still wouldn’t.”

“Why? I am your closest friend.”

“Are you?” Eomer said, as if threatening to find someone else for the job.

“Look here, I just wanted to be certain that you were happy in the current… whatever it is you are doing.”

“I am courting her,” Eomer said, already having explained that.

“Yes, but I have been trying to work out the rest of it. You are courting her but only until we get to Minas Tirith, where you would have to stop courting her, to ask her family to start again?”

“That seems to be the whole of it.”

“Sounds backwards,” Eothain took another drink of wine. His back hurt a little, and he wondered if at almost thirty he was getting too old for a soldier’s life.

“Agreed,” Eomer grumbled, “but her family will likely agree to allow us to continue seeing each other. Things being what they are now, I should think they would find me acceptable.” It was an optimistic outlook, he knew, but it was better than the alternative. At present he had a hard time imagining being with anyone else. He had always been a little quick to fall, he knew, but this felt different somehow.

Eothain clasped his shoulder, giving him a serious look, “You are perfectly acceptable.”

“Oh, shut it,” Eomer pushed Eothain’s shoulder, smiling, “Why does everyone seem to have interest in this relationship?”

“Beyond the diplomatic ramifications of it?” Eothain asked, “Wait, who else has been asking you questions?”

“Lord Boromir said some… interesting things.”

“Oh, what did he say?” Eothain perked up, and taking in his friend’s irritated face and his silence, “Come on, I’m an old married man!”

“We are the same age.”

“Yeah well… what did Boromir say? And do not keep trying to get out of it. Anything you find ‘interesting’ is likely much stranger than that.” Or else it was so terribly embarrassing that he had to hear it.

Taking a deep breath and taking a long drink from the wineskin.

“Oh…” Eothain said slowly, not certain he wanted to know after all for a single moment.

“Alright, I am going to tell you, and you need to sit quietly until I’m done,” Eomer said, taking another drink, “and you keep it to yourself.”

“Of course, have I ever betrayed your trust?” Eothain asked, “Besides the time with the cow. But honestly, that was idiotic.”

“Hey, it was not. Lady Seawyn’s mother was a nightmare, and the cow would not have been hurt.”

“The door would not have been to get that beast into the house, not to mention the dress never would have fit.”

Eomer smiled, “But it would have been funny.”

Eothain tilted his head, glaring a little before chuckling his agreement. “It would have been.

When a person was young and drunk, foolish plans and ideas spewed forth to the amusement of all, and the certainty that the speaker would never act on them. The Bovine Incident as it had come to be known in the annals of drunken lore, had begun that way and with the young lady that Eomer fancied, and was certain he loved best of all, said that her mother was being a cow. It had ended tracking down a seventeen-year old trying to talk a cow into breaking into a house with him as he staggered a little and tried to offer the cow some ale, saying “Well my dog seems keen on the brew, and what are cows, but very large dogs?”

Eomer took another breath, “I cannot be with Lothiriel until we wed,” he said, hoping to get the point across easily enough without having to expound on how trying that had already become.

“Whyever not? How do they court in Gondor, through letters or a screen?” Eothain asked, as if perplexed, “Will you have to tell a chaperone something and have them run across the palace to relay the message?” He knew what Eomer meant, but also knew just how fun it was to convince him that he was being far too vague to be understood.

“We can be in each other’s company, but not intimate,” Eomer said.

Eothain let out a low hum, “So… that is, uh… How are you holding up on that front?”

“I am fine,” Eomer shook his head, “I am a grown man, and can manage celibacy.”

“Well, you never have before,” Eothain smirked. The Third Marshall liked women and liked their company. There had been a few years after the Saewyn debacle where he had been, not wild, but not entirely careful with his affections, not that he ever truly was. They had been so young then, and it seemed so strange to think about how they had been. Eothain had never had eyes for anyone besides his wife, at least not past a quick cursory look, but Eomer had for a few years gone through courting with his usual sense of attention and kindness, but with what seemed to be an eye to a specific end.

“It hasn’t been necessary before,” Eomer replied, his voice almost singsong in its mocking. “And she is a maiden, so I am simply going to wait until it would be appropriate, and it would not be such a dishonor to her.” Why it would be a violation of her honor, he did not quite understand, but she did have three brothers and they were likely to be protective and who would likely thrash Boromir if they ever found out how cavalier he had been on the subject.

“I hope she is worth it,” Eothain said, shaking his head a little as if he doubted it.

Eomer glared snatching Eothain’s sleeve a little roughly, “She is worth that and more.”

“Of course, she is,” Eothain said with a smile, “That was a test,” he prodded Eomer’s chest with his finger, “you passed.”

“I hate you sometimes.”

“Oh, of course you do not,” Eothain smiled, “but, and I say this will all the brotherly love that I have for you, you had best get comfortable with a hand towel.”

“How long and Gondorian courting really take? A couple of months? It will be alright.”

Eothain raised his eyebrows, holding his tongue. His friend was serious about Lothiriel, then. He had known that he liked the princess, but if he was seriously considering marriage… Well, Theoden King would certainly be happy. The King had spent a while trying to get Theodred married, to little effect.

Life hadn’t been easy for Eomer, and if Eothain had to guess, neither had it been for Princess Lothiriel. She was sweet, and she had a quick, if small temper, if the few times she had smacked at her cousin was any indication. She was young and there was little that Eothain would discourage in being cautious with her. Perhaps cautious was the wrong word, but it was the sense that he had of her. She reminded him a little of a startled filly at times.

It was in his opinion a miracle that she and Eomer had been able to figure things out well enough to get to this point and as quickly as they had. He certainly was not inclined to say anything to spook either of them.

He realized Eomer was staring at him for some confirmation or denial of his assertion. “As you said, it should be simple enough,” Eothain smiled as convincingly as he could.

0x0x0

Eowyn shook her head looking over the pages in the small light of the lantern, her face the picture of disappointment, as she sat up in her cot a short distance from Lothiriel’s, “I recommend you burn this.”

“I know, it’s positively vulgar,” Lothiriel said whispering back, a little embarrassed at having shared the conversation that she had been forced to have with Boromir. She wanted to push her face into her pillow.

“Vulgar? No, it’s useless and for the most part inaccurate,” Eowyn laughed, whispering back, “Oh, my friend, what do they tell you of these things?”

“That our husbands will instruct us.”

Eowyn shot her a look, “I suppose, depending on your husband that can be… not the worst thing that has ever be said, but I am of the opinion that women should learn from each other about intimacy and not from men.”

Lothiriel’s eyes widened, her mind going straight into the gutter immediately.

Eowyn laughed, “Your face! I do not want to imagine what you think I mean. I only think that women know better about what a woman should expect than a man would.”

“And he really did little enough to tell me any useful information,” Lothiriel said, resting on her elbow, “and when he was going to give useful information, of course it was too late.”

Eowyn shook her head, before laughing, “Poor girl.”

Lothiriel thought a moment, “Have you ever…?”

“We might not be as prudish as your countryfolk,” Eowyn narrowed her eyes, “but that is private information, and we do think that sort of thing is not to be brandied about. Especially in my case.”

“Of course,” Lothiriel said, a little embarrassed.

Eowyn took a breath, before leaning forward, “Alright,” she whispered, “what do you want to know?” She was going to be honest, but also did not want to remember that she was talking to her brother’s sweetheart because she was not certain that it was entirely right to have the conversation that they were having in that case.

Lothiriel hung on her every word, feeling far more comfortable talking to Eowyn about this, and Eowyn made a note to herself that she would need to speak to Lord Boromir about his latest impulsively stupid idea. Or at least from what she had heard, perhaps he had done more stupid things since returning to Gondor.

“Do…” Lothiriel began but slowed, “Intimacy is important in relationships, or have I got that wrong?”

“It can be, but to what extent would depend on the couple,” Eowyn said carefully, bracing herself for a few different questions that she was certain she was going to be asked, whether she wanted to answer them or not.

Lothiriel’s dark head nodded slowly, her finger picking at some imagined lint on her bedroll “Does… If I do not, or cannot engage in such things… should I expect that Eomer would seek them elsewhere?”

“I would not worry about it,” Eowyn said, smiling, having not considered that concern, “My brother is not the wandering type. Once he gets his sights on something he does not stray.”

“That is a comfort, but…”

Eowyn’s head tilted a little, waiting for her to go on.

“But men have uncontrollable urges.”

Trying not to laugh, Eowyn said, “That they do, and that urge is to make themselves quite annoying until they are given attention.” She tried not to laugh again at the startled look in Lothiriel’s eyes, “Not in that way, Lothiriel. I know it might be counter-intuitive, but I would recommend not worrying yourself about any of this.”

“I am simply not certain that I am…” she could not think of the word she meant, “I am not used to being useless.”

“You are not useless, that I promise you. My brother likes you, and while he is not usually the most patient man, in this case he would be. I have not spoken to him about any of this because, well he is my brother, and I would rather not know anything of the sort. But he is not a brute.”

“I do not think that he would… be unkind,” Lothiriel said, blushing a little. Eomer had been nothing if not kind and gentle with her, “More I fear losing his interest.”

Eowyn shrugged, “Again, I would advise you not to worry.”

“There are other ways that I could… keep his interest? In that way I mean?” She grimaced at her awkward words, certain that Eowyn was going to flop back on her bedroll and tell her to go to sleep.

Eowyn let a huffing breath out through her nostrils, “There are…”

“Should I not ask you about this?” Lothiriel felt not for the first time how awkward this had to be for her friend, “I do not know anyone else that I can, is the trouble. Not even at home.”

Eowyn had rather hoped to have finished that conversation already, having explained what she could expect from the act itself, and what sorts of things men might do. In truth, she had spent more of that time trying to express to Lothiriel that she had some control over what happened to her, and that she should say if she did like something or if she did not, and to try to explain to her that intimacy was not the end of some devious trap, or at least it should never be. But she had alluded a little to alternative forms of entertainment. She weighed her options for a moment before she went on, “There are different ways to affect that sort of thing in a man…”


	11. Chapter 11

Minas Tirith

Boromir took a long look at his father and could barely reconcile the man he had known all his life. He had been warned that his father was no himself, and had known that he had been struggling, but the look on his father’s face was not one that had ever been directed at him before. The relief of his survival has quickly passed with Boromir’s news of Aragorn. He had intended to power through the entire awkward conversation of everything that has happened since he had left Minas Tirith, but that had become rather untenable.

“I never thought that you of all people would turn out to be such a disappointment to me,” Lord Denethor, his voice sending an uncontrollable feeling of shame through Boromir.

“Father,” Boromir began.

“Have you assured this… this ranger that we will cede the power that we have held as out birthright over to him!?” Denethor asked, his voice echoing around the King’s Hall.

“He is the rightful king, and there is little that can be done to stop it without a violation of our house’s sacred duty,” Boromir said, doing his best to keep his voice level.

Denethor glared at him, his dark grey eyes burning hatefully under his brow, “What powers have been in play to turn your loyalties? What reason would you have to turn from your own family?”

“I am not turning from our family father!” Boromir said, “The line of Stewardship will not end, and we will still have position in this court, and one could even say more power if we ally ourselves with Aragorn.” He watched his father pacing a trail of manic rage and assured betrayal in front of the thrones, his hands wringing at each other with ferocity. The words left his mouth, tasting like a lie. He had no intention of manipulating Aragorn’s trust in pursuit of power.

“Has the Ranger taken the One Ring then? Is that what power he holds over you?!” Denethor roared, suddenly after having been silent for a moment, “You had one charge! I entrusted you to save us all, and you have failed me! Just like every other fool in this city!”

“That…” Boromir did not know who to explain what had happened without having to lay bare his shortcomings to his father, that he had almost taken the ring by force and that he still feared what he might have been, and he knew that doing so would hardly offer the explanation that would assuage this fury and disappointment. Months ago, he would have told his father what was happening, but now he was not certain that he should even be in the same room as the man. “That matter is being handled, Father. We must trust to that and turn our attentions to keeping this city standing until the Rohirrim can come.”

“First Lothiriel abandons me and now you,” his father said, as if not hearing his words. He looked suddenly like a scared child, a mentally unhinged one, but still. “Can I truly trust in no one?” he whispered, curling in on himself.

“Lothiriel is…” Boromir began, but thought better of giving his father any information in his state of rage. He needed to defend her, but as with every other explanation he could offer, Boromir began to see that the truth would hardly help.

“Do not speak of your cousin to me!” Denethor roared, turning on his son before he could have said anything, “That little bitch fled the city without a word to me of farewell or explanation. I thought she was stronger than that,” his lips curled for a moment, his voice breaking, “What a disappointment she is, to run from truth, rather than to face it."

“What do you mean, father?” Boromir asked, studying the shifting nature of his father’s gaze with a morbid interest, “What did you do?”

“I trusted her!” Denethor said, looking the picture of rage before his face changed into complete loss, “I trusted her with…”

Had Denethor made her look? She had been so terrified, and Boromir had assumed it was the general fear of the man that he was looking at now. But perhaps she could not yet remember looking into the citadel’s Palantir, or what she had seen if she had.

“I do not doubt that she will return father,” Boromir said, as ever the placating son, “when it is safe to do so.”

“She was safe,” Denethor said, curling into himself as if he was being accused alone for the lack of safety of the country. “I ensured her safety by my every action, and how does she repay me?! By leaving me alone when I needed her!”

“There was and is the minor issue of war,” Boromir smiled sardonically hoping his tone might act as a balm as it had in countless family disputes before. He could tell his father the numerous reasons that had led to Lothiriel’s flight from the city; her own father’s concern, her likely fear of Mordor’s forces and his father’s… condition to name a few causes, but he knew that would not do any good, and would likely only exacerbate the Steward’s mental condition. Perhaps he might be able to pull him out of it, “I doubt Lothiriel realized you would feel this way. Did you quarrel with her?”

“No,” Denethor said, thinking a moment, another dark glint coming into his eye, “Come, my boy.” He rested his hand on Boromir’s shoulder leading him along to the room where Palantir was stored.

Boromir’s fear knotted tighter in his stomach until he was certain he would be sick, having spent most of his life trying to avoid putting himself in this specific position. He had always listened to his father’s dismissals of Gandalf’s warnings and wisdoms, but for this one thing that he had never been able to convince himself was anything but reckless. He had always avoided looking into that stone, knowing that there was always a chance of the enemy looking back into their minds.

It was the very reason that young Master Pippin had fled Edoras. He had seen the unbridled fear in his friend’s face, and he had wished yet again that the young halfling had stayed in Rivendell. He had seen Pippin for a moment before he had met with his father and had felt as if he was in a dream as he looked at him in the regalia of the tower guard. He wished there was more than he could have done to protect the boy, because Pippin was still so young, younger even then Lothiriel was in the counting of age in their race.

The wide stone room was almost empty of all else but the stone pedestal on which The Seeing Stone sat on a bed of velvet given pride of place with no distraction from its shining surface. 

“Father…”

Denethor moved past Boromir without any indication that he had heard his son’s quiet warning and picked the Palantir up, turning it over in his hand as he looked into it. His face was lit with the colors of fire and shade as the stone projected what had to be a scene of destruction. “All is lost, and by your own failure.”

He had never been on his father’s bad side, mostly because he always said yes to him, but having been away from his father, he felt for the first time as if he could see his family more clearly. He had never understood his father’s constant disappointment in Faramir, beyond the fact that his younger brother did not fit the unreachable expectations that Denethor put on him. Now he could see that Denethor had only reason that Boromir had become the man he was, because he had not wanted to disappoint his father fearing the treatment that Faramir had quietly accepted.

The manipulation of people was his father’s favorite tool, but now he understood that he had not been exempt for those machinations. Theodred had said so years before, but Boromir had been certain that he was more willful than that, and that he was loved because he deserved to be, and that he could make up the deficit of his father’s love to Faramir.

That thought shot through his head suddenly, chilling him through, “Father… where is Faramir?”

Denethor turned back on him suddenly as if startled at being interrupted in some private thing, “Retaking Osgiliath, as I have bid. We need to keep the defensive position.”

Boromir stared at his father noting that he clutched the Palantir against his chest, “That is a suicide mission!”

“You could have managed it, and perhaps Faramir only needs an opportunity to prove himself as he has ever begged to be given,” Denethor smiled as if he was proud of his son in truth. If the situation was even mildly less dangerous, Boromir would have taken that look as progress, but that dangerous gleam in his eye made Boromir’s stomach churn even further.

Backing from his father’s presence and offering some excuse that he needed to see to the city’s defenses, Boromir bowed quickly, his entire person feeling wrong. He hurried to the armory to fetch his armor and to prepare for battle, his mind moving beyond his will to his fear. It was not just the fear of his enemies, but of his father, and for his brother.

“Nephew,” a deep, warm voice said behind him, “I am pleased to see you safely returned.”

“My Lord Uncle,” Boromir did his best to smile to Imrahil as he bowed his head. His hands still shook a little.

“Did…” Imrahil looked quickly over his shoulder.

Ensuring that they were alone, Boromir moved closer. “She is safe. Theoden King has offered her sanctuary for as long as she needs it. As long as she wants it, too, if I do not misjudge.”

“She only made it as far as Rohan?” Imrahil asked, looking as if he was suddenly aware of how foolish the entire plan has been, something he had known but hoped would be proven wrong, that by some ingenuity, Lothiriel would make it to Imladris. If not for the bizarre string of events that had left her an amnesiac, perhaps she would have. Any time he thought on Lothiriel’s chance meeting with Theodred, Boromir was overwhelmed again by his grief, and curiosity as to what would have happened if the ambush had never taken place.

“It is a very long story,” Boromir said, and smiled an assurance, “but she has made friends in that country, and I do not think they would let any harm come to her.”

“Lothiriel has made friends of the Horse Lords?” Imrahil almost laughed, “I wonder how she managed to tame that ramble.”

Boromir shook his head, not wanting to get into a discussion of any of what had happened, knowing that to answer that she had by her own charming nature and by bawdy songs and dice games was likely not what her father wanted to hear, “My father seems…”

Imrahil’s face fell, “Your brother and his men have not yet returned. The left just after you arrived.”

“How long has he been… like this?” Boromir asked, wanting to know more on the subject that there might actually be an answer to yet.

“In truth, I cannot say, for his paranoia has slowly grown, and perhaps this had started years ago, and we simply never took notice of it, but this current situation is untenable.”

Boromir nodded grimly, trying to steel himself against the certainty that his brother would not be returning to the city.

0x0x0

Dunharrow Encampment

Lothiriel had wanted to throw her arms around Eomer as soon as she saw him, but there too many people about, and she was certain that it would not be appropriate for her to do that, and that he would not think her overly enthusiastic and clinging. There were other things that needed his attention, plans and strategies and they were far more important than she was.

He shot her a quick and apologetic look before following his uncle into the King’s tent with the rest of the men.

She wondered what they were discussing, and what they were planning, but she was not meant to know any of it. For the first time she actually saw the benefit of her life in Minas Tirith. Not the comfort or opulence, but that had been present until the last few days before her departure, she understood that she had power.

She missed having influence and being asked her council, not that it would be appropriate to insert herself in the affairs of another country without being invited, and she knew that the Riddermark was more egalitarian from the stance of gender. But she was born a girl, and if Boromir was here, or any of her brothers, they would have been in that tent, as would she if she had been born a boy. If she had been, though, she would have to ride with the army, and she was willing to take one reprieve in exchange for her inability to take part in the council.

Lothiriel looked over her shoulder at the pass and felt a chill run down her spine. She didn’t want her back to the space for some indiscernible reason beyond her general fear of caves and of stone enclosures. There was something evil in that pass, she knew it.

“They say that it is haunted,” Lady Eowyn said as if it was nonsense, following Lothiriel into their tent to finish setting up their accommodations, “They say that the Army that broke their oath to Isildur lived in that mountain thousands of years ago. Isildur cursed them to never rest until they fulfill the oath sworn and come to the aid of the King of Gondor.”

“What?” Lothiriel asked, her eyes even wider, “Cave Ghosts? Oh, by Elbereth, I will not sleep a wink this night.”

“Oh, it is nothing more than an old story they tell children, so they behave,” Lady Eowyn laughed.

“Then someone ought to tell the horses,” Lothiriel retorted, settling a bed roll out over her cot.

“Do you believe in ghosts, then?”

“Suppose I do?” Lothiriel stared at Lady Eowyn, as if waiting to be mocked.

“You would have more sympathy on that score from my brother than you will take from me,” Lady Eowyn laughed, pushing a thick bundle under her own cot, “He has always been superstitious.”

“Why?”

Lady Eowyn sat on her bed, smiling knowingly, “When he was not even yet out of curls, he claimed that there was some apparition or other at our father’s house in Aldburg.”

“I saw one in Edoras,” Lothiriel said, sitting down next to her friend.

“You never did,” Lady Eowyn scoffed.

“No, down in the dungeon, I swear it.”

“What did it look like, then?” Lady Eowyn’s eyes narrowed a little, more than ready to offer some logical explanation to the younger princess’ imaginings.

“Pale as death he was, all adorned in black, and he leaned in close to me,” Lothiriel leaned in closer to Lady Eowyn for affect, her fingers hooked like claws, “and it opened his dreadful mouth and he said….”

“He said?”

“’It is Lord Wormtongue to you, you wretch,’” she said in an oily voice that mimicked the disgraced advisor.

Eowyn smacked Lothiriel with her pillow.

Lothiriel laughed, fending off the attack before retreating to her own side of the tent and going to look out at the camp. The men were still in council, she knew from a quick glance. There were guards and soldiers here, high on the ledge of the mountain, but thousands more in the plain below.

“Do you think there is much hope?” Eowyn asked suddenly.

“Of seeing a ghost. I certainly hope not,” Lothiriel said, her fingers working the tent flap nervously. She knew that had not been what Lady Eowyn had meant.

“No, of victory.”

Lothiriel did not answer immediately, “There is more to a battle than numbers.”

“But numbers are certainly a factor to be considered.”

Lothiriel looked back at Eowyn, trying to find something that she could say to assure her, “There are soldiers in Minas Tirith. If they are sieged, they will not be much help. If your men can even just pull the enemy back from the walls…” Lothiriel smiled, trying to hold on to the hope that was dwindling a little. The sense of helplessness was closing in on her again. Mordor would all but empty itself to destroy Gondor, and they would not stop until every place was taken. If Gondor fell, it would be a message to set aside any fighting spirit and to let the darkness move without resistance.

“I wonder how many of our women will wait for men that will not return,” Lady Eowyn joined Lothiriel by the tent’s door.

Lothiriel was trying not to think on that, knowing the odds were that she was going to lose someone in this battle, at least one someone if not all of them.

“But at least those that give their lives will be remembered for their sacrifices,” Lady Eowyn said, still holding the romantic notion of battle tight.

Grey blue eyes met hazel green eyes and Lothiriel did not know how to tell Lady Eowyn that she should count herself lucky to be safe from what would come.

Later, her brother would be far blunter about the realities of battle, but Lothiriel did not possess the words in an attempt to explain it to her and discourage her from some scheme to join the army. The memories of the ambush still felt too fresh for Lothiriel’s liking, and she never wanted to be close to anything of the sort. The smells alone were enough to turn her stomach.

She watched the people that had been in council filing out, doing her best not to hope that Eomer would be free from duty for a few moments. It was a selfish thought, and she should think toward more important matters than wanting to see the man she liked.

Eomer left, speaking with Gamling, likely making arrangements and plans; important work that needed doing.

He saw her standing in the door of the tent beside his sister and smiled for a moment and said something else before leaving Gamling’s company and walking over to them.

“Sister. Your Highness,” Eomer bowed looking at the pair of them, “are you two spying?”

“Why ever would we do that?” Eowyn asked, “A dull gathering of dull men having dull conversations, what interest would there be in that?”

She waited a moment for him to answer, but Eomer and Lothiriel just kept looking at each other like the lovesick idoiots, she felt they were becoming.

“Lothiriel, I am going to go get some air if the pair of you do not,” she said, smirking a little as they realized that she was speaking to them. She prodded her brother’s side as if trying to encourage him to speak or at least do something interesting.

“Would you like to walk?” Eomer said, feeling as stupid as that sentence sounded.

“I would, thank you,” Lothiriel’s smile widened, as she took his offered arm and they left the tent.

“Useless, the pair of them,” Eowyn muttered to herself, smiling a little.

0x0x0

“I think that distance brings some measure of clarity,” Eomer said after a moment.

“Does it?” Lothiriel asked, her voice light even as she felt a little panicked. There was nothing to worry about, if his face was any indication. Eomer did not seem given to hiding his thoughts.

“Yes,” he said, “I have gained such clarity, and have discovered that I do not like being parted from you.”

“Oh, is that so?” she smirked.

“When I am not able to see you, I find that it is quite difficult to focus on other matters.”

“That must be quite irritating.”

“It can be,” he admitted, folding his hand over hers, “but alternatively I like thinking about you, so I suppose it could certainly be worse.”

“What a glowing affirmation!”

“I am not gifted with words,” Eomer said, blushing a little, “I have tried to work out what to say to you that would perhaps give a better impression of my thoughts, and still find myself… faltering.”

She smiled up at him, “Well, I think that is very sweet.” She imagined him practicing talking but could not decide if he had bounced his ideas of Eothain or Firefoot. Both options seemed equally as likely, and both were as sweet to consider.

Eomer looked down for a moment, hiding the small smile.

Lothiriel squeezed his arm a little, “You do not have to pretend to be anything you are not.”

“And thanks be for that. I doubt I have the energy to do so for long.”

She laughed, and he was glad that she did not hide her smile behind her hand as she seemed to do by habit.

“What?” he asked.

“I just tried to imagine you trying to pretend anything,” she shook her head.

“I swear, if I get to Gondor and have to dress differently, I am going to be very unamused,” Eomer said, clucking at the idea, “What do men in your country wear, besides far too many layers of silk robes?”

“Those are normally for formal events. The regular garb is far more casual than that.”

“Casual Gondorian Nobility seems a bit of an oxymoronic,” Eomer muttered.

“Perhaps,” she agreed, “that might account for why I feel so comfortable in the Riddermark. Perhaps, I prefer simplicity, though I had never considered it.”

“You do like it here, then, truly?”

“Of course, I have said so, haven’t I?”

“Yes, but having assurance is a comfort.”

She stared up at him, a little surprised, “Is the great Lord Eomer afraid that I have been playing some cruel joke on him?”

“I did not say that.”

“Nor have you denied it,” she said, intrigued if a little annoyed, “I am not certain why you would not trust me.”

Eomer paused, frowning at her, “We are not going to dredge up all of my tragedies.”

“Why? I have consistently burdened you with mine,” she studied his face, trying to work out what he was hiding. A realization hit her, “Or have you actually not been certain that you can trust me?” Had her confessions to him not been as easily accepted an excused as he had said? Had he, on reflection away from her, decided that she could not change from what she had been made?

“I trust you,” he assured her, “You have given me no reason not to.”

“But?”

Eomer looked away for a moment formulating an answer, “I had thought to marry before, but she…” he thought a moment longer, “did not want to wait for me to return.”

“How long were you gone?”

“Six weeks, it was a typically patrol.”

Lothiriel’s eyes widened, “What a cold-hearted wretch!”

“Now, now, Waerhild is a very fine woman.”

If her eyes could have widened further, they would have as she stopped short and stared at him, “You… were… Eothain married the woman you loved?”

Eomer tried to check his smile and failed.

“Oh!” she smacked his arm, “I believed you!”

He laughed, “I am sorry. No Waerhild and Eothain were childhood sweethearts. That lady, she is back in Aldburg, very happy and with a gaggle of children.”

“What was her name?” Lothiriel watched the small shift in his features.

“Saewyn,” Eomer said, “I was young and a little foolish, and had originally thought that I might win her affections back, and made myself the topic of gossip and ridicule for some time. I think that in truth she had already realized that she did not want to be a soldier’s wife and had another fellow that she felt was a safer option.” His rank had not been a safeguard against the heartbreak of it, though, nor his own quickness to find another partner, a feat that had done him better than he ought to admit.

Lothiriel smiled sadly, “I am sorry, for making you speak of it, and for being angry.”

“This is you angry?” Eomer asked, almost terrified in her quiet calm.

“Well, I do have some measure of self-control,” she said, “and I could not possibly yell at you in front of people.”

Gondorians were strange indeed, Eomer thought before he said, “Why were you angry?”

“Well, I have certainly told you more than would be wise, because I trust you, and I suppose I was a little offended that you would not share that trust.”

Eomer smiled, before reiterating, “I trust you, my lady.” He looked her face over carefully. There was one black curl never wanted to stay with the others and had slipped loose again to rest against her brow. His smile softened even further as he brushed it back, savoring the moment of touching her, and the quick thrill it sent through him, “If I did not, we would not be together.”

Still, even after he had done this a few times, she blushed a little. He wondered if there would be a time when she would not, and in a way he hoped that she would not ever feel that his touching her was something that should be anything but ordinary, but he also might feel the loss of her coloring with some ache. He liked her blushing, and liked her freckles, and really her entire face, and all of her.

She looked away, smiling a little nervously, biting her lips together. He wanted to pull her lips free, and to kiss and then… he took a breath and tore his gaze from her, studying their surroundings. That large boulder there was certainly… well not interesting, but it was large… and a rock. He knew little enough about geography, as it had ever struck him as terribly dull, but perhaps dullness would stop his mind from filling with fantasy. Yes, that was a perfectly fine rock.

“Are you alright, Eomer?” Lothiriel asked, concerned.

He liked that she said his name and knew that it was a silly think to feel his heart speed at, but he liked her without the artifice of courtliness, and that she had begun to do so without him asking. He smiled, “I am. There is much on my mind is all.”

“Of course,” Lothiriel nodded, “I hope I am not keeping you from some greater matter.”

“No,” he shook his head, “I am free for now to spend what time I might have to myself.”

She did not want to ask how much time they had, fearing that he would tell her only a few minutes, “I hope you have not squandered the time that you could have taken for resting.”

He smoothed the back of his fingers over her cheek, “I have not.” Giving a quick look about, he took her hand in his for a moment, and pulled her along gently. He could not take Lothiriel back to his tent, or her tent, as the gossip would not be kind if he did. Perhaps that boulder was not as dull as he had originally thought. 

“Whatever are you planning, my lord?” she asked, coyly.

“Nothing at all,” Eomer replied, “I only thought to steal a moment, and perhaps a kiss.”

“I do not think it is stealing if it is freely given,” she leaned her back against the stone, biting her lip again. There was something inviting about the way she shifted her weight.

He always tried to be gentle, not simply because it was her, but with every woman he had ever been with. Strength was something required of him, emotionally and mentally of course, but physical strength had almost the most important, and he lived in constant fear that he would accidentally hurt one of his partners if he did not check himself. The fear was doubled in his certainty that if he acted as he thought to he would likely frighten Lothiriel away.

Stooping carefully, he smoothed his fingers against her cheeks, turning her face up to him. The look she gave him was so earnestly full of longing that it almost broke his will. He kissed her gently, cupping her face in his hands.

Lothiriel grasped at his hips, pulling him closer against him. She smiled against his lips and at the small groaning sounds he made as she pulled him flush against her. She slid her hand up the back of his neck, holding on to him for dear life.

He bit her lower lip gently pushing against her just a little. He was grateful for his armor for a moment, for it hindered him from feeling her body pressing against his, but he hated more for that reason. Her lips parted and he felt his resolve weaken. His arms wound about her waist, wanting to drag her to somewhere more private, but this was the best they were going to be able to manage. Lothiriel’s arms tightened around his neck, moaning a little as his tongue made a careful exploration of her mouth.

She felt as if there was a fire burning in her belly, and she pulled back from him, trying to catch her breath, and to reevaluate what she was doing. It was not that she felt ashamed, perhaps she should, but rather that they were not exactly out of public. The first shard of a plan began to form in her mind.

“I…” Eomer said, breathing heavy, grinning. He ran his hand along the side of her throat, feeling her pulse under the soft warm skin. “May I kiss you here?”

“Yes,” she murmured, leaning into his hand.

He nuzzled against the side of her neck for a moment, smiling at the gooseflesh he saw rising there. He kissed slowly, listening to the shallow sound of her breath catching a little, and tangled his fingers into her hair.

The rock clattered to the ground, startling them both out of their revelry, and Eomer glared at the halfling after recovering from the start he’d been given. He’d leapt a few feet back from her.

“I was just… Gimli said he needed rocks for…” Merry said, both quickly and slowly, “things…”

“You needn’t explain,” Lothiriel said, forcing a smile, her hand pressed over her thundering heart, “you can just go now.”

“And keep your mouth shut,” Eomer grumbled, worried again that there would be gossip, the very thing he had hoped to avoid.

Lothiriel pressed a hand over her mouth to quiet her giggles.

“Do you think that someday I might be allowed to finish with you before we are interrupted?” Eomer asked, leaning back over her, and trying his level best not to show his frustration. Was it too much to ask that they could have a few moments alone, and uninterrupted? He knew that they were in public in a way, but there were always people watching them. He felt like a young frustrated boy that he could not simply share a few kisses with his sweetheart without someone coming upon them.

Her eyes widened a fraction wondering what his words meant, “I hope so.”

He smirked a little, running his hands over her shoulders.

“You are not going to try to kill Master Merry, are you?” she asked cupping his face in her hand, putting aside that she was almost certain that Lord Gimli had sent Merry as a joke on the halfling, and on them. If she had to lay a wager, she’d guess Lord Legolas had some part in it.

“Of course not,” Eomer said, as if aghast, “that would be hardly a fair match.”

“Oh, my dear,” she ran a hand over his chest, “your hubris might be your downfall. Never underestimate the little ones. It’s always the ones you doubt that do the most dangerous things.”

“Is that so?” he pressed his hands against the stone by her shoulders.

She hummed out an affirmation, looking back up at him under her lashes.

“I suspect you are going to get me into trouble,” he asked, shifting his jaw a little.

“I might yet.”

He took another long look at her, smoothing a hand over her mussed hair, and studied her flushed cheeks and swollen lips. That sudden rush of thoughts pressed in on him for a moment. He traced his thumb gently over her bottom lip, for a moment before standing back with an internal struggle. “I should get you back. My sister will be wondering where you got off to.”

“I doubt she’ll wonder at all,” Lothiriel said smiling, and taking his arm, “I think I must look rather kissed, my lord.”

“Perhaps a little,” he said with a self-conscious smile. “But no less beautiful.”

“Oh, go on,” she smiled squeezing his arm a little.

“I mean it!”

“I know! Go on,” she laughed, “I absolutely thrive on flattery.”

He huffed lightly, casting her a quick smile. “No, I do not think I should. I have already told you I am useless with words, so perhaps it would be best I ration them.”

“Do not dare, I like talking to you,” Lothiriel said, smiling, “If I have to carry on all of our conversations on my own, I might lose my voice. Admittedly, I am usually not comfortable with silences, but I am somehow alright with it, when I am with you. I know that sounds foolish, but…”

He peered at her, “I understand.”

“Do you? I do not think I do.”

Eomer thought a moment, “You have not ever been in love, have you?”

She blushed, feeling a little too aware of her naivety, “No.”

“But undoubtedly you have had more than a few suitors,” Eomer went on.

“Nothing that ever really felt like anything more than… perfunctory, for lack of a better word.” She had had a few infatuations, but nothing had ever come of any of them.

“That is fortunate.”

She scowled at him, “because if I had, we never would have met? Or because you are the dreadfully jealous sort?”

“No, because I doubt any of the men your uncle would try to marry you to would be worthy.”

“Oh! More flattery?” she grinned at him, “Excellent.”

He shook his head, and slowed their approach back to the tent, and lifted her hand to his lips. “I need to return, but might I see you later?”

“My schedule is so full of social engagements at present, but I might try to see if I can find some time for you,” she gave him a small smile. She was good at teasing, but still felt nervous that he might take offense at her words, or that she would say something that might not translate as humor between their cultures. So far, she hadn’t made any mistakes, but that did not mean that she would not.

He squeezed her hand a little before kissing it again. “I would certain appreciate anything you might be able to do.”


	12. Chapter 12

Lord Aragorn had left with Lord Gimli and Lord Legolas, and though Theoden King had assured his men that they had left with a purpose, and that they would still ride to war, there was a strange undercurrent in the camp that she hoped would break by morning.

That tension had not left Lady Eowyn untouched, and Lothiriel had wanted her friend to confide in her as Lothiriel had often enough done, but did not press the matter, even if she thought that there was likely some further despair in Lady Eowyn. She did not know what it was that had happened beyond the fact that Lord Aragorn had gone, and she hoped that that was the extent of it. The sadness that she had ways seen just present at the edge of Eowyn’s gaze seem to take her over, and Lothiriel was not certain that anything she could say would make it better.

She wondered if there was any hope that they would not all die or be that the Enemy would not succeed, but she knew better than to voice her anxieties. She sat quietly with Eowyn and kept her thoughts to herself until Eowyn stood and left the tent, her entire body rigid.

Lothiriel watched her go and pulled the covers over her shoulders. Staring up at the canvas ceiling obscured by the darkness of the late night, she wondered if she where she could go when the battle was lost. It was so unnaturally quiet that she could almost hear her heart beating in her chest.

The idea that had begun to form had been a stupid one, and it had only occurred to her because she wanted to be alone with Eomer. It seemed just as stupid now, but in spite of that, it felt important. There might not ever be another chance.

She climbed from the warm comfort of her cot and picked the cloak that Lady Eowyn had lent her from under the blanket. Eowyn had teased her for bundling up against the chill in the early spring evenings, explaining that they were not even the northernmost country on the continent. The cloak was wool and itched a little over her cotton nightgown, but it was better than the cold. She had not thought to put her shoes on and within moments of leaving the tent, she cursed herself for it, for her feet were frozen.

0x0x0

Boromir leaned back against the stone wall in the corridor, trying to breathe. His brother lay on a cot in the great hall, still alive but only barely. Attendants would take him to the Healing House and tend to him there, but it had been stupid protocol that any son of the Steward was brought to the citadel first, perhaps losing time for the importance of ceremony.

The sight of his brother had sent him to his knees, and for a moment, he could barely hear what anyone was saying around him. He hadn’t heard his father’s screams of despair, and even after he came back into himself, he could not quite make out the words that were said to him. He had walked from the hall, in a daze, not certain what it was he was meant to be doing. He started at his uncle standing there beside him, sympathetically resting a hand on his shoulder.

He moved without thought, his face pressing into Imrahil’s shoulder and he wept again for the second time in a week.

Imrahil wrapped his arms around Boromir carefully, “Faramir is going to be alright.”

It could be a lie, well meaning, but useless. Saying that something would happen did not make it so. Boromir sat back, wiping at his face furiously with the heels of his hand. He straightened up and went back into the hall, trying to keep the stranglehold on his composure returning to his father.

“Rohan is not coming,” Denethor was raving, “Theoden has broken the Oath, and betrayed us.”

“He has not,” Boromir said, back, his voice raising a little, “I heard him with my own ears the call for riders.”

“Do not speak to me!” Denethor rounded on him, “This feel event is entirely of your making! My trust has been misplaced at every turn. At least Faramir was loyal to me in the end!”

“You speak as if he is already dead, father.”

“He is!”

Boromir’s eyes widened, “Father, he lives yet.”

Age had not yet robbed Denethor of his strength, and he snatched at Boromir, his fingers curling under the neck of Boromir’s breast plate as he glared at his son. His lips curled back in disgust as he said in a low voice, “Do not speak to me. You serve some dark master, and I will not hear another of your sweet lies.”

Imrahil watched the entire thing and picked up the goblet of wine that Denethor had been drinking from. His hands moved quickly, dropping the sedative powder into the cup and giving it a careful swirl, “My Lord Brother, I am sorry for your loss.” He handed the cup over to his late sister’s husband, “If you will pardon us, we must see to some affairs. He bowed his head, and snatched Boromir’s arm, giving a careful look to one of his men.

“We cannot leave him like that!” Boromir hissed.

“Be quiet,” Imrahil hissed, grasping Boromir’s arm firmly, and did not speak again until he was certain that they were out of Denethor’s hearing, “It will be handled.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your father is not in his right mind,” Imrahil said quietly, giving Boromir a long look, “he is going to sleep for a time, and I pray that he will awaken in a better mood.”

Boromir’s stomach hurt, “Uncle…”

Imrahil took a breath, “We have a battle looming, and the men need a leader. At present your father is not the man for the job. But you are.”

The weight of what was coming, and of what had already happened bore down at Boromir’s shoulders and suddenly he was aware of his every breath.

“Faramir will be taken to his room to rest, but now, we must make ready,” Imrahil said, wishing that he could be gentler, that he could offer more comfort to his nephew. There was not time for fear and for sorrow.

“We must ready the men,” Boromir said, his voice heavy, knowing what was coming, and that help would hopefully not be too late.

0x0x0

Lothiriel slipped quietly into the tent, trying her best not to feel nervous. Eomer stared back at her, as if for a moment he could not figure out if she was actually standing there, or if he was dreaming. This dream had come to him before.

“I cannot manage to sleep,” Lothiriel said, smiling a little apologetically, not certain that she ought to have assumed that he would accept her coming into his personal tent. It was, when she thought about it, tantamount to walking into his rooms without being invited.

“Nor can I, or likely anyone else,” he smiled and held his hand to her, beaconing her to him. “It is common enough before a battle.”

She crossed the space to him without a thought, and some part of her mind teased her with the question of whether what she felt was the same as some spell. Sitting beside him, her head leaned against his shoulder.

His arm wrapped around her shoulders holding her close against himself. His hands went to his hair with tender fingers, stroking and smoothing over the curls that fought against the tight braid that she wore. He rested his cheek against the top of her head, feeling comforted by her closeness.

“Are you afraid?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied as gently as he could, “We all are, but you push past the fear.”

“And if you cannot?”

He did not answer, but for a moment, his fingers stopped moving in her hair. The answer was on the tip of his lips, but he held it back, knowing that she was aware of what he would have to say, and not wanting to utter the words.

Lothiriel looked back up at him, her head moving from his shoulder. Her pale eyes misted a little at his silence, and the answer that lay hidden in it.

Eomer’s face softened, “I am not going to die,” he said, his voice soft. He smoothed the back of his fingers gingerly over his cheek.

“How can you know that?”

He looked away, “Because I think I would do anything to get back to you.” It was a sentimental sentiment, but even as the words sounded like something that he would never say, it felt true.

Lothiriel sat back, her head turning a little, “Why?”

“Because I feel at peace with you,” he looked back at her, his fingers traced her face again in the dim light, noting the gentle furrow in her brow, “I will not tell you to set aside any worry. You will worry, but I promise to come back. I am not through vexing you, my dear one.”

She smiled a little, “Then, I am dear to you?”

“You know that you are,” he was looking deeply at her seeming to pour every shred of tenderness that he could muster up into his gaze.

“Eomer… I…” she said not certain how to tell him what she felt without disappointing him, but he stopped her, stroking his thumb against her lower lip.

“You do not need to say anything or feel that you need to reciprocate the level of my affections. You seem to like me and that is enough. I know that you feel…” he closed his eyes, as if trying to find the correct words, and seemed to give up, “No lie should fall from these lips.”

“You are a good man,” she said simply, looking at him, reaching up to his face, pulling him closer to her. She pressed her lips to his, softly kissing him. Perhaps she should tell him that she loved him. She was not certain that she did, but thought that she might in time, and perhaps not much of it would need to pass. If he died in a few days, she might regret not saying it, no matter what he said, or what he knew. Though he had not said that he loved her, either, only that she was dear.

His hands on her cheeks were gentle in spite of their callouses, his thumbs stroking her cheeks, and holding her to him for a few long glorious moments. His lips nipped at hers gently, and she parted her lips to him, knowing from before that it was what he wanted her to do. He pressed a few smaller kisses to her lips before drawing back a little to look at her, his breath coming out in low shallow breaths for a moment before pressing his brow to hers.

“I like kissing you,” she whispered, almost giggling, “It makes me feel…” she could not think of how to describe it that would not make her sounds young and foolish.

He smiled, “I like kissing you, too,” he pressed his brow to hers for a moment.

She shifted a little awkwardly, pushing the cloak off her shoulders, her eyes shifting down a moment before coming back up to his. Her anxiety came back on, and she felt her hands trembling a little, making the gesture less graceful than she would have liked.

He looked almost confused until he saw her fingers working the ties at the front of her nightgown, his eyes took in her hands for a moment. He watched her fumble a little and wanted to press close against her and pull the garment up over her head and toss it away. It was more than tempting, and he could so easily let his restraint loose. He wanted her, and he might die. For a moment, that fact alone made him consider if it might not be worth the trouble of it. He wanted to see her body and wanted to kiss every inch of her skin.

He took a deep breath before his hands moved to stay hers, pulling them away from the ties, “There is no need for that.” He held her hands in his, trying to remind himself that if he let her continue it would be a diplomatic disaster. And that if he did what he wanted to do he wanted to, that her family would know, and that they would not be happy about it. She would likely be considered shameless woman, and would be shunned for it, or the less pleasant scenarios that his fear made in his mind.

“You are important to me,” she said quietly, not wanting to explain the numerous other reasons that she had come to him, “I do not know how else to tell you so.”

“Not like this,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Why? Do you not find me-?”

“I want you,” he assured her, smiling. She had no idea, and he thought that if he told her how much it might frighten her, or worse, make her more determined. While he knew that his will was strong, he did not think that testing it further was advisable, “Believe me, I do. But I do not mean to take your maidenhead in a battle encampment,” he looked down at her small hands, “at very least, I would mean to ensure you a more comfortable bed.”

She laughed a little, the color coming up in her cheeks.

“I do not want you to compromise yourself for me. I will not tarnish your reputation so carelessly as that.” He looked back up at her, squeezing her hands gently.

“When you come back-”

“When I come back, I ask only for a kiss. I will not bed you unless you are my wife. You are too precious for anything else,” he said, implying that he meant his words in a broader sense than he stated. Her body, her person, was more than just a body, it was a possession of her state, and he knew that.

Lothiriel tore her gaze from his, feeling embarrassed, “I think that I want you.”

“If I take you to bed, the walls will be much thicker,” he said, almost whispering near her ear, smiling as her skin prickled, “for I would mean to make you sing.”

“If you can,” she said, trying to regain her composure.

His retort died on his lips as he looked at her, “I am going to kiss you again, and likely again after that.”

She smiled and accepted his kiss, trying not to shiver in the cold air. She wanted to feel his hands on her arms, and on her back as well as she could. There were other things that she could do to please him, and she knew in vague terms what they were from her conversations with Boromir and Eowyn, but she wasn’t entire sure how to instigate such things. She was also certain that he would tell her not to do them, which was a bit of a relief as she doubted that she would be anything other than clumsy.

“You are all but frozen,” He said suddenly, and pulled her cloak back around her, and pressed another kiss against her forehead before wrapping his arms around her bundled form to try to warm her.

“I will be alright,” she said, rolling her eyes a little at his concern, “I only wanted to offer you some comfort.”

“You bring me comfort enough,” Eomer said, thinking a moment, “There is something I would ask you, and as ever, you are free to reject the request.”

She looked up at him, waiting to hear what it was he wanted her to do. The initial nervousness was back.

“Stay by me tonight,” he shifted a little to look at her, “though perhaps it would disappoint you to say it would only be to sleep.”

She kept her eyes on his, knowing his strong embrace would loosen if she pulled away from him even a little and she felt as if her chest would burst suddenly. She nodded and leaned into him, her head resting against his chest, feeling the warmth of his body, and the safety she felt in his arms. He kissed the top of her head, before pulling the covers back for her. and wrapping the cloak firmly around her before pulling the blankets over her shoulder. She curled her feet to keep the icy skin from him. He wrapped his arms back around her, feeling the shape of her body, and assuring himself that it was enough.

She rolled awkwardly in his embrace to look back at him, “I thought men all had uncontrollable urges.” She had said this to Eowyn but was more confused by the answer she was given, her own bias leading her to believe that men and their “annoying” behavior was a kindly way to affirm threatening behavior.

Eomer looked at her, his arm bent up to support his head, “Is that what they tell you in Gondor?”

She leaned up on her elbow, “And that is why we have to be wary. If you are alone with a man, and such an urge comes on, you would have to fight him to defend yourself.” There was a nagging sense that there was something she was trying not to remember there.

“Any man unable to control himself is not a man, but a beast,” Eomer said, earnestly, and feeling a little too proud of himself.

“Do you think such men are a scary story to tell young maidens, and that they do not exist?”

“No, I know they do,” he was looking at her, “But I think you could dispatch any such villain, and if you should need it, I would do so for you.”

She looked down, a fingernail stroking at a ripple in the bed linen, “Is that mountain really haunted?”

“Probably,” Eomer said, clearly believing the stories that his sister dismissed.

“Your sister says it isn’t.”

“She tends to be quite logical,” Eomer shifted a few tendrils of curls from her eyes, watching them move at he touched them, a small smile on his lips, “if a spirit walked up to her, or even through her, she would find a reason not to believe it had happened.”

Lothiriel laughed, resting her head back against the pillow, “I do not think I have a mind to see anything of the sort.”

“There is no controlling such things as that,” he teased her in a low voice, “The dead will be seen when they wish to be seen.”

She smacked his chest with the back of her hand, “you are going to give me bad dreams.”

“Then I suppose I will have to protect you,” he lay his head down on the pillow beside her, his arm pulling her back close against him, his nose brushing against hers gently.

She smiled at him, her eyes closing a little. He was a sweet man, under his stony exterior, and it still surprised her a little. She wondered if he was a gentle lover, for if he was, she might not need to feel so nervous at the idea that she might give herself to him. Considering his every action toward her, she had no reason to believe he would not treat her with tenderness and respect. She stroked her fingers over his brow gently, watching his face soften further.

She nestled closer to him, and rested her head against his chest, soothed to sleep by his hand gently stroking over her hair. If she had not been certain before, any doubt was banished from her mind. She could certainly love this man, given more time. She hoped that she would have it.

0x0x0

Theoden King rose before sun, looking over the plans for the battle, moving pieces and markers on the map of the Pelennor Fields, hoping he had guessed correctly that Lord Aragorn would indeed return with the reinforcements needed for this to be successful.

He left his tent to wake his nephew, waving off his guard. He needed to think, and to be alone. There was still much to discuss before they set out for Minas Tirith.

Though it did not surprise him to see Princess Lothiriel curled in Eomer’s embrace, he had not expected it. They looked peaceful, and Theoden wondered when the last time he had seen Eomer relax in truth without being forced to do so. He had been a direct child, seeming to want to take on the responsibilities that were lain on him too young with the stern resolve he felt they required.

Theoden remembered explaining to his twelve-year old nephew that he did not need to take the running of Aldburg alone and the look of confusion on his face as Theoden had explained the concept of regency, and that Theoden would oversee the majority of it but explain everything to Eomer as he went. He had grown up too fast, as had his sister.

Theoden smiled a little trying not to feel the twinge of melancholy as he looked at them. Gently he pulled the covers up over her shoulder before quietly waking his nephew and jerking his head gently to the tent’s opening before leaving.

Moments later, Eomer emerged, dressed, his face the picture of nervousness, “Uncle…”

“We should discuss strategies for the battle,” Theoden said, “May I recommend that you have Princess Lothiriel go back to her own bed before the men wake.”

Eomer nodded, ready to be told off for being so careless, and searching his uncle’s face for some sign of disappointment or irritation but was surprised by the soft smile on the older man’s face.

Theoden smiled, “the gossip of soldiers would rival that of chamber maids, and as such, you might want to send the princess away before anyone else sees her.”

“Nothing happened,” Eomer said in a low voice, not cowering or ashamed, but not wanting Theoden to think what anyone would naturally think having seen them sleeping tangled together.

Theoden pressed his nephew’s shoulder, “I am simply glad to see you happy, son.”

0x0x0

Lothiriel woke to Eomer gently stroked her cheek, kneeling by her side. “Good morning,” she whispered, looking up at him in the beginning of morning light.

“You should get back before you are missed,” he whispered, smiling at her.

She nuzzled her face into the hand, before sitting up, and stretching, “Are you leaving soon?”

“In a few hours, but if I do not see you before we set out, know that I stand by my promise to return to you,” he pressed his lips to her forehead, his arms wrapping around her shoulders for a moment.

She pulled the yellow ribbon from the end of her braid and pressed it to his hand, “Take it as my favor?”

“Thank you, my lady,” he kissed her quickly, before gently leading her toward the door. He did not want her to go, and he stood watching until she disappeared from sight.

She pulled her hood up over her head, glancing over her shoulder before rushing away, creeping as quietly through the camp as she could, hurrying to her bed, and hoping that Lady Eowyn would still be sleeping, if she had returned the night before. Luck was not with her.

Lady Eowyn smirked, “where have you been?”

Lothiriel stared at her friend, dressed in leather armor and chainmail. She stared at Lady Eowyn, sinking to sit on the edge of her cot, “Eowyn…”

“No one knows you were gone, if that is what you are concerned with. Are you in love with my brother?” Eowyn teased watching Lothiriel dig through her little box to find something to use to tie her hair back.

“I am uncertain as to my own feelings,” Lothiriel admitted, “But I like his company. It just… feels right.”

“He has made quite a few women feel right, from what I’ve heard,” Eowyn laughed, as if she didn’t wish that she could have been left unaware of such gossip.

Her mind began to reel beyond her ability to stop it, even as she knew most of those thoughts were lies that her mind told her.

Lothiriel looked away, having not given much thought to what Eomer’s life had been like before she came into it. He was handsome and free from any entanglement. Why should he not have known the company of other women? It did not seem to be as frowned upon for women to give their affections freely here. She knew that her own brothers had not remained chaste, and only one was at present married, and even he had not stopped his wandering attention.

It was something she had known was likely the case, that he would have had other partners. She had even thought that he had gone with a woman to her house for such a purpose as that. But since she had begun to spend time with him, she had stopped thinking about it all together. Now, she felt, not ashamed, but somehow that she had been rather foolish the night before. If he had agreed to her initial plans, she would have little certainty that his intentions were in fact honorable, beyond her trust in him, and that she would not be counted in a number of other women.

“Oh, I did not mean-” Lady Eowyn said, seeing Lothiriel’s face change a little.

“You are meaning to ride with the army,” Lothiriel said, knowing not to question Eowyn too fiercely, but she also felt the need to focus on something else to keep her mind from swirling into a jealous whirl.

“Yes. Do not try to stop me.”

“Well, I know not what you might think to do with your buckles done so wrong as that,” Lothiriel shook her head, raising and coming to adjust and tighten the armor, “I used to do this for Faramir when he needed help with his plate mail, the few times he ever wore the things.”

“Lord Boromir’s brother?”

“Yes, I have lived with them and their father the last few years,” Lothiriel smiled, “And with those two and my three brothers, I am not unaware of the trouble your brother has likely gotten into before.”

“I do not mean to turn you from Eomer,” Eowyn said, wincing a little at the cultural differences of their societies, “It is considered right that he has done well by his lovers.” She wondered for a moment what Lothiriel knew about the trouble Lord Boromir got into, and what she would say if she did, but thought better than to ask.

“What a strange way to recommend him,” Lothiriel chuckled through the blush heating her face.

“I like you better than the other women that he has been tied to, even if only by rumor.”

“Well, we did not… do anything of that sort. So perhaps…”

“You went to him and only slept?”

“He said he did not want to compromise my virtue.” What sin had she committed in her life to be trapped in this embarrassing conversation, or any of the ones she had been forced to endure recently? Where had she gone wrong to be speaking to the sister of the man she was falling in love with, about his prowess and romantic past. She focused her attention on the armor.

“And he let you sleep by his side?”

“That is all that happened,” Lothiriel frowned, “I can’t do much else. None of this armor fits you well, my lady. It isn’t safe if you cannot move properly in the battle, you might come to harm.”

“I am going.”

“I know, but please be careful. As careful as you can be.”

“You do not want to ride out with the men?” Lady Eowyn asked.

“I would be ill-suited to the charge.”

“I saw what you did to that Dunlender. You nearly took his ear off.”

“There is a large difference between hand-to-hand fighting, and a battle,” Lothiriel replied, looking at Eowyn, “And I have clearly proven myself as useless in the latter.”

There had been things and actions that her muscles had recalled without knowing, but now she knew that her brothers and her cousins had taught her so that she might be able to dispatch anyone meaning her a direct harm, and how she had reveled in it; but felt as if she had only learned such things later in life. She had loved the idea of power in her hands, but it had done little to help anyone. She had not been able to save Theodred, and she still did not know that she could live with herself any time she thought about it. If Eowyn’s words were true, Lothiriel was being courted by the future King of Rohan because she was a useless girl. The future would be unchanged by her death, but by her inability to save one life, a man who seemed to dislike regulation and restraint, who had lived happily as a marshal and earl had his life changed. She expressed few of these thoughts to anyone, but Eowyn seemed to see her anxiety.

“You didn’t kill Theodred,” Eowyn said suddenly, “He was recuperating well. Lady Baldgwyn left him to fetch a salve, and he was dead when she returned, his lips were already blue, and she suspects there was poison on his lips.”

“He was murdered then?”

“You must carry not the weight of a sin that was never your own. You must live, and if I fall in battle-”

“You will not,” Lothiriel grasped Eowyn’s hand a little too fiercely.

“If anything happens to me, please take care of Eomer.”

“I will not ask, but once, please reconsider. He only speaks so harshly and as an idiot because he loves you. I do not think he would survive if any ill befell you,” Lothiriel said.

Eowyn shook her head, “Then I suppose I will need to be careful,” she smirked, “And besides, Master Meriadoc and I will keep each other safe.”

Lothiriel held her tongue, “then be safe, please.”

For the first time, Lothiriel understood why Eowyn wanted to go. She wanted to fight because she wanted to defend her country, and that choice had been denied her. Their countries were different in some ways, and though to Lothiriel’s mind, The Riddermark seemed to offer far more freedom, they were both of them still held in cages of one kind or another.

The two princesses embraced and Lothiriel pressed a kiss to her friend’s cheek, adding another name to the list of people that she did not lose, and knowing the odds of them all surviving became lower with each new addition. Her Father, her three brothers, her cousins, her father, the man she might love, and now her friend.

0x0x0

Theoden peered into the Princesses’ tent, seeing only Princess Lothiriel, tidying her possessions. When she looked up, her eyes widened before she smiled, “Your majesty,” she dropped in a quick curtsy, “Has the time come?”

“Indeed,” The King smiled, “Where is my niece?”

“She left a little while past. I am not sure where she went,” Lothiriel said, trying to keep her face innocent, “I can go seek her out, my lord?”

“No, she has been behaving strangely, and I do not wish to further trouble her,” Theoden looked downcast and Lothiriel wanted to kick herself. What if the King fell in battle, and had not been able to see his niece again for that moment that could mean so much? She bit down on her tongue, not wanting to betray Eowyn.

“Is there any other way I might help?” she asked, tilting her head a little bit.

He studied her a moment, “There is actually.”

Lothiriel saw a knowing look in his eye, and felt her stomach clench, not certain what she should expect.

Theoden looked her in the eye, noting her blush and clear anxiety and nervousness. She seemed so young somehow, and when she looked back up at him, he felt some strange sense of her anxiety, “Fear not for your kin and for your friends and for…” he smiled knowingly, “From what I know of your family, they are great warriors. I know it seems a silly thing to ask, but I would ask you do your best.”

She nodded, “I will try, my lord, to set aside my concerns.”

The King looked at her, “It is a hard thing to do. We ride out now, your highness,” he bowed, “Please be well. I should hope that we will meet again, and that we will then have cause to celebrate.” He smiled at her gently and trying to work out the answers he would have to give in support of the marriage he was certain his nephew, his heir would want. Some of his councilors were still irritable over some of the choices his own mother had made as Queen, a full generation before, and were in favor of a domestic match, if one could be made.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Hobbit tradition, when one has a birthday it is customary to give trinkets and gifts to all in attendance. As such, today being my birthday, I give you all a new chapter.
> 
> Buckle in for some angst in the next few chapters.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are super appreciated!

Lothiriel failed at fulfilling the request that Theoden King had made of her, and worried endlessly.

News, good or bad, could only come as quickly as the horse that might carry it back to Dunharrow. Lothiriel tried to bear that in mind as she paced the encampment like a wild cat trapped in a cage. She couldn’t stop moving, even as Lady Baldgwyn called her to help finish packing the King’s camp, but Lothiriel didn’t give her an answer, and kept her eyes on the horizon toward Minas Tirith. They would leave in the morning, a few of the younger boys were staying behind to await the news of the battle’s victory or loss and bring it to Edoras.

Lady Eowyn’s absence had been noticed soon after the army left, but Lothiriel said nothing, and no one seemed to think to ask her anything about it. More likely they all could guess at where she had gone. She hated the long waiting and wondered if perhaps she should have followed the army as Eowyn had done, but she knew that she would only have been hurt, or else in the way. The long night passed, and she prayed silently to Elbereth to keep every person in her affections safe, with an illogical need to do something to help.

The moon had just passed its peak when she mounted Leofric, leaving a note that she would send a rider with news as soon as she could. She ended up crossing paths with the rider on the second morning, and he slowed as he approached her, eyeing her suspiciously before he recognized her.

“Lady Lothiriel?”

“Yes?” she asked, recognizing his armor as Rohirric, and hoping that his stern face didn’t reflect the news he came bearing.

“I am Fuldan, son of Fulmund,” he said, “We have succeeded in the battle.”

“Victory?” she asked, relief flooding her along with dread, “Were there any casualties?” As soon as she asked the question, she knew how stupid it was. People died in war, but she wanted to know how many people if any she had personally lost.

“Of course, my lady. Théoden King has fallen.”

She gasped, her hands tightening on her reins, the words felt like a blow.

“And Lady Eowyn is injured, but I know little more than that.”

She nodded, “Get back to Dunharrow, fast as you can. I’ll ride ahead to get aid set up where we need.”

He bowed his head and rode off, riding hard through the night. Eowyn was injured, but she did not think Fuldan would know how gravely, but he had not said anything of Eomer. Eomer must have survived the battle, then. He would not know anything of her family either, likely.

She rode until the night was too dark and she stopped to rest under the open sky, and rode on in the early, grey morning until she saw the white stone of Minas Tirith as the sun began to rise, and the devastation of the battle was still laying out over the Pelennor fields, and her stomach turned for a moment as she forced herself to ride on to the gates of the city, a guard at the gates holding out his hand.

“I am Lothiriel, Daughter of Prince Imrahil, The Princess of Dol Amroth, and you will let me pass!” she said with all of the authority that she could muster and hid her surprise that it worked.

Lothiriel rode through the city up to the citadel and gave the Leofric’s reins over to a page to have him taken to the stables, “Cool him down and feed this horse, he has borne me well.” She smoothed her hand over his sweating neck. “Hannon le, mellon nin,” she pressed her forehead to Leofric’s, his wide eyes heavy with exhaustion.

She hurried into the citadel and did not slow until she found Lord Aragorn in the throne, the new King of Gondor looked almost at a loss as to how to manage the supportive aid that would be needed, both for medical care and for the refugees of war. Lothiriel wondered if men ever really gave a forethought to the costliness of war, not only the weapons and armor, and lives lost, but the things that came after the blood bath. They needed beds and bandages, and food.

Lothiriel passed her case and her cloak to a page and instructed him to take it to her rooms in the Steward’s wing of the citadel before turning her attention to the task at hand. She did her best to help with the specific concerns, taking charge where she could as she looked over the ledgers and records for the stores, and frowned. There was something strange about them that she could not quite account for or explain. She worked with a determination that must have appeared manic, her mind had emptied of her need for news of her family, or of people she knew personally. She hadn’t even thought to ask where her uncle was.

“Send out word for any linens that can be spared to be brought to be used as bandages. Bring any refugees into the city, and we can put them in any large public houses, to keep the relief centralized,” she looked over a city map, scanning the options on the middle levels of the city, “The library here should be able to house many of them,” she looked to Lord Aragorn, hoping that she wasn’t overstepping.

Lord Aragorn smiled, nodding, and signing off on her suggestions.

“Write to my father in Dol Amroth, and see what supplies he can send,” she went on.

“Your father is in the city,” Lord Aragorn said, looking up suddenly, “Have you not yet seen him?”

“No. I came here directly,” she replied, relieved of her father’s survival, “Do you know… is my family…?” she asked.

“They are all alive, for the most part, just some minor wounds,” Lord Aragorn said carefully.

“For the most part?” she murmured, “Would you like to elaborate on that?”

Lord Aragorn let out a breath, “Your brothers are perfectly well, as is Boromir. Your father has a few cuts but is alright.” He fell silent a moment, giving a quick look around, “Lord Faramir is recovering from his injuries. He attempted to retake Osgiliath and it went poorly. He lives but is in some pain.”

Lothiriel nodded slowly, feeling heavy, and not knowing what to say or ask. She wanted to know where her uncle was but feared the answer either way.

“Lord Eowyn is at the Houses of Healing, injured, but she lives,” Aragorn said quietly. “She and your cousin, and Master Merry should make a full recovery.”

“Lord Eomer?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the store listings.

“He had to be pried from his sister’s side, even when she was out of danger. Perhaps you might see if you could get him to take some rest,” Lord Aragorn said, “though I would advise caution. He has taken these losses hard.”

Lothiriel nodded, “I will go forth and volunteer at the Houses of Healing when we get the rest of this sorted out. I am certain they will need more hands. You should call for anyone that had any sort of healing knowledge come forth if they have not already.” This war was not over, she knew, and they would need all of the men they could muster back to fighting form.

“I will see you to your rooms so that you may rest before you offer such needed aid,” A familiar voice said behind her, making her turn suddenly to face her Uncle Denethor as the sudden chill went through her blood.

She dropped into a deep curtsy, trying not to wince at the soreness in her legs and her back from her long ride. “My Lord Uncle,” she said. She began to rise and was startled by the sudden embrace her uncle gave her.

“My darling girl, I am so pleased you are safe,” Denethor held her back a little by her shoulders, looking her over before sighing and hugging her again, his eyes gleamed a little with unshed tears of relief.

It was not what she had expected and wondered if she had vilified Denethor in her mind, the way a child might do to a family member that scolded them. She wrapped her arms around him in return, feeling comforted.

“Come,” Denethor took her hand gently, guiding her away, “There is so much you must tell me.” He had not acknowledged Lord Aragorn’s presence at all, but then, he might simply be overwhelmed with happiness. His hand on her shoulder made Lothiriel’s curtsy terribly awkward.

Lothiriel fell into step with her uncle, letting him settle her hand in the crook of her arm, “Uncle… I am sorry for having left without permission.”

“Yes, you should not have done that,” Denethor said, a strange tone in his voice, “I should think you would have spoken to me of your plans, and I might have given you better advice.”

There was no explanation that she could give that would not be an insult. “I know, and I am sorry for any worry I may have caused.”

They walked in silence for a moment before Denethor stopped in his steps, “Where did you go?”

“I was going to try to get myself to Imladris, thinking that I would find Boromir there, but I did not make it any further than Edoras,” she said.

“Rohan?” Denethor asked, his face the picture of confusion, “Boromir did not say you were there… You were with him, then?”

“I was, yes,” Lothiriel smiled, “I am certain he was only preoccupied with the preparations for battle.”

Denethor let out a small grunting sound, his gaze leaving her as he stood rigidly still, thinking, “Well, there is little to be done for it now. When you are married, we will be able to ensure your safety better. I am certain the Horse Lords did their best but…” Denethor suddenly looked back to her, his eyes narrowed a fraction.

“When I am…?” Lothiriel began to ask, before she could stop herself. The battle had been two days ago. Boromir should have been able to discuss this matter with his father by now.

“There was something I had hoped you might help me with, if you are not too busy,” Denethor turned his gaze back on her suddenly, and smiled.

“I meant to go to the Houses of Healing. They will need all the help they can muster, and I might be of some assistance,” she smiled, feeling suddenly as if something was wrong. She had already said more than she should have before speaking to Boromir. There was something in the way that Denethor was looking at her that she did not like.

“It will only take a moment,” Denethor’s smiling face was almost a balm to her nerves, but not quite.

“Well, what is it that needs my attention so pressingly?”

“It would be better to show you,” Denethor said, taking her arm gently and leading her up a staircase.

It was part of the citadel that she knew well. Her uncle’s study was at the top of the stairs, and little else. Rather that stopping at his study, he led her on down the corridor. To the best of her knowledge, they were records rooms, or storage rooms.

He released her arm for a moment, taking a ring of keys from the pouch on his belt, “I have been trying to solve this riddle for the last few days, and I do not doubt that you would be able to find the answer. You have always been so clever,” He pushed the door open, and guided her gently into the dark room.

It smelled musty and looked as if it had not been cleaned in years, likely because it was empty as far as she could see. “Uncle, I do not understand,” she said, peering around the room. She turned back as the door slammed shut behind her. She could hear the key turning in the lock.

She ran the short distance, slamming her hand against the thick wooden door, “Uncle? This is not funny. Let me out!” Her voice betrayed the fear that she wished she could conceal.

“I will,” Denethor’s voice came back, muted by the door, controlled and level, “when you are ready to act appropriately for a lady of your station and rank.”

“You cannot keep me here!” Lothiriel beat her fist against the door, “Let me out! I beg you!”

There was no answer, even as she screamed and slammed herself against the door. She looked around for some way to escape, or else raise an alarm, but there was nothing. The door’s hinges were on the other side, there were no windows and the room was empty of any stick of furniture. Her uncle knew she hated small spaces and being locked into them. He knew the best ways to punish her.

0x0x0

Eomer felt as if he could breathe again, the moment Eowyn’s eyes opened, and he had gripped her hand a little too tightly.

“That is my sword hand,” Eowyn said, her voice small and weary, “Let it loose already.”

He smiled, and had been sent to rest, but had to be forcibly moved from her bedside, and put in his own. It was not as if he could sleep.

He had not been able to stop his mind from running around and screaming at him. The entirety of the battle was still fresh in his mind and he still felt as if he was meant to be fighting.

Sitting on the edge of this bed, he twisted the yellow ribbon between his fingers, and tried to slow his thoughts, but could not seem to manage it. This was not terribly unusual. Every fight had left him buzzing and unable to stop moving. 

When the sun began to set, he got up from the bed again to dress for dinner. He was meant to dine with Lord Aragorn, a few lords of the court that had remained in the city, or come to aid in the siege and battle, and this included Lothiriel’s family. He knew that she was likely safe in Edoras, and that would give him an opportunity to get a read on the dynamics in the family. He was to meet Lord Denethor, and he would never admit that he was as intrigued to see who had spawned Lord Boromir as he was to meet the man that inspired fear and fealty in his lady.

He hated state functions, but at least Uncle Theoden would… He had forgotten and remembering almost sent him to his knees. This had happened multiple times the last two days, the same way it had with Theodred. His uncle lay in state funeral rest in the catacombs of the city, and he knew it was a high honor, but it still did not feel real.

Eomer looked at his reflection in the glass mirror, hating the face that stared back. He looked as exhausted as he felt, and it was so strange to see himself so clearly. They did not have these sorts of looking glasses in Rohan, and he found his face staring clearly back at him a disconcerting thing.

The other realization struck him through again. He was King, a job he had never wanted.

“You saved my niece,” Lord Denethor said as soon as the introductions were done, “I owe you a debt for that.”

“Not at all,” Eomer said, feeling strange at the Steward’s words and his direct gaze, “I should perhaps be in your debt instead. She is a remarkable young woman.”

Denethor smiled, but his head shifted a fraction, “She is that indeed.”

Eomer made himself smile, hoping that this was some form of progress in his endeavors, but there was something dark in that look that Eomer could not quite decipher.

He sat by Aragorn, who had not yet been crowned, and who had considered staying with the soldiers camped outside of the city until he was but had been convinced against it by practicality. Lord Boromir was conspicuous by his absence, and Eomer felt strange that he so wanted a familiar face that he would have welcomed him with open arms.

He did his best to hold his tongue and to listen, but the Gondorians from time to time slid into their elvish tongue without thought, and he could not understand what it was that was being said, nor could he understand the strained looks that her brother’s shot between each other. He heard Lothiriel’s name and his ears perked a fraction but was not certain that it was appropriate for him to speak, or to ask.

The other lords and princes sat, speaking quietly between them, but Eomer had the impression that they were all listening to the family drama, and he wished that he had taken better to studying languages in his youth.

Leaning the short distance to Aragorn’ ear, Eomer asked, “What is happening?”

Aragorn looked at him, shaking his head a little, his face contorted from its usual state of deep thoughtfulness, into an expression that advised his friend not to ask, “The dialect here is unique to this country, and they speak rather quickly, so that it is difficult to understand.” It was in part a lie, but one they both knew saved Aragorn from needing to translate the simmering argument.

From what he knew, the nobility of Gondor did not publicly discuss family matters so openly, and Eomer wanted to know what it was that pressed on Prince Imrahil’s mind that he would feel the need to do so.

He wished that he could already be finished with his meal so that he could make some excuse and leave the strange tension filled room.

0x0x0

Denethor opened the door to Lothiriel’s little room and stared at her sleeping form on the stone floor. He set the plate he had made by the door and closed the door again, locking it firmly. He needed to know where she was, and if she had not been so useful to him, or if perhaps he had not been able to trust her not to leave him, he might have done this sooner.

No, he didn’t like to punish her, but he had liked being abandoned less than that.

She was going to behave, or she was going to be made to do so.

Personally, he had always liked her free spirit, but then, she had never turned that spirit against him. He had been trying to work out what King Eomer had meant in truth when he had said that Lothiriel was remarkable and had tried a few times to convince himself to take it as the compliment that it sounded like, but he could not be certain of it. The Rohirrim said little without meaning, and this new King was not like his predecessor. Theoden had been Gondorian on his mother’s side, and had been raised to be king, and as such had always been keenly political and courteous. This Eomer King had a wild streak in him that Denethor could recognize at a glance, and he did not like it in the least.

If Lothiriel had betrayed Denethor, then who was to say that she had not betrayed Boromir as well. While he was not speaking to his elder son at present, he could not in the name of his honor allow such treachery to stand unchecked.

He went into his study and lit the candles to better see his work.

His true legers were laid out in from of him, and he could not decide at which point he should show them to the Ranger, if he decided to do so at all. The numbers were only off a little, and if he kept them a secret, he could take some the discrepancy of gold with him when his family was removed from power to ensure their survival. No one would ever be the wiser.

The soft knock at his door focused Denethor’s mind to a single pinpoint of attention, and he closed the books and slid them out of sight, “Enter.”

Prince Imrahil held a decanter of wine as a peace offering, “Have you a moment for a weary soul?”

“Of course,” Denethor folded his hands on the desktop, gesturing for Imrahil to fill a cup for him. “Are you well?”

“I had wanted to ask about what Lothiriel said before she withdrew,” Imrahil said, smiling as if he was not accusing Denethor by asking for more information. They had sparred with words over Lothiriel’s custody already, and perhaps Imrahil had said more than was wise.

“I know naught beyond what I said,” Denethor said, settling back with his wine, “She said that she was weary and did not want to be disturbed by any.”

Imrahil nodded, “Her ride must have been long to have gotten here so quickly after the battle’s end,” Imrahil said as if this explanation settled his curiosity.

“It must have been.”

“I did not see them bring her bath,” Imrahil said, “I should hope she was no so tired that she fell into her bed without washing.”

“Would that we all had such extended gifts of sight that we could see everything in a household,” Denethor smiled, “We might know where each trinket lost went.”

Imrahil chuckled into his cup, nodded, “A truer sentiment had likely never been uttered.” He did not believe it, having gone to his daughter’s room and found it dark and shrouded in a thin layer of dust from the weeks she had been gone. “I should hope that I might see her tomorrow, and hear her tale, for I imagine it has been quite an adventure.”

“I do not doubt,” Denethor’s lip curled a small measure, “Though I do not doubt either that she will be pleased to be home and free of whatever adventures you imagine she has had.”

“I cannot claim to understand your meaning and inference.”

“What know you of that Third Marshal? This ‘Eomer King’ as they call him now?”

“Little enough. He came with King Theoden the last time he came to visit, if you recall.”

“I do not,” Denethor replied, thinking, “I remember Theoden and his son, but forgive my aging mind if it does not recall much of that time so long past.”

Imrahil thought a moment. He so far liked Eomer King well enough, he seemed a steadfast man, his recklessness in battle aside. Battlefield madness was not a reflection of a man, Imrahil knew having once been as young as King Eomer and having had his own periods of hopeless abandon. If he and his men had not been able to ride out when they had, Eomer and most of his men would likely have died, valiantly of course, but still.

The young king had accepted every member of the family’s thanks for his safekeeping of Lothiriel, but he had said little else that would lend credence to the rumors his sons had warned him of. Elphir and Erchirion had heard from a few of Rohan’s soldiers that there were rumors of fondness between their new king and the Dol Amrothian Princess.

“His men love him, and I have seen nothing to leave me with any suspicion of improper intent toward my daughter, if that is your concern,” Imrahil said gently.

“He called Lothiriel remarkable, I should think to wonder at his meaning.”

“She is remarkable, and accomplished, I should think that he would only mean to compliment you on how well you have brought her up,” Imrahil said, smiling through the bitterness of the words. It was not entirely true, but it might be better to play to Denethor’s pride, then to let him spiral out some dark conspiracy and claim of betrayal. “I think they have become acquainted and that he offered her protection while she was abroad. Boromir has spoken well of him-”

“Speak not to me of my treasonous offspring,” Denethor muttered, rubbing at his brow where a strange tingling sensation had broken out.

Imrahil watched his brother-in-law with a careful eye, trying his best to wring some answers from his fretful silence.

Sitting forward suddenly, Denethor smiled, “I thank you for your company, but there is some work that I must finish tonight.”

The Prince stood nodding, “Of course, brother.”

“I had forgotten,” Denethor said, watching Imrahil cross to the door, “I will have the midwife come tomorrow to examine Lothiriel’s person.”

Checking his features against the reaction to his words, Imrahil said, “Perhaps she might be allowed some rest before her virtue is assured.”

It was a family matter, and if Imrahil had his way, it would have been arranged by either himself, or someone in his immediate family, not by the man that was only family by marriage.

“It is better to have all unpleasantness done at once,” Denethor said, a dismissal as he looked back to some page on his desk.

Imrahil wanted to ask what other unpleasantness there was, and if he might take his daughter home when he left Minas Tirith but knew that there was little enough certainty that such a request for further information would be well met. That such a request had to be made at all would be an insult if Imrahil had not handed custody of his daughter over, thus it was his own fault that he knew his daughter as little as he did. That guilt pained him as it had for years.

He closed the door carefully and looked at Boromir with a grim face. They both remained silent as they left the corridor and adjourned to Imrahil’s rooms. He had chambers set aside for his use as did Lothiriel and the rest of their family, and they were comfortable and private. Checking the rooms for any servants, Imrahil and Boromir sat with unease, goblets in their hands.

“He knows where Lothiriel is, I would wager all that I have on it, but he did not say,” Imrahil explained.

“And you did not ask?” Boromir cried back at him, wanting to storm back up to his father’s study and irritate him until he told them where he was keeping Lothiriel. He could stand his father’s disdain, or he could at least pretend to, but he was not certain he could stand letting his cousin fall back into the bad habits that Denethor encouraged in her.

“He would not tell, you know it. To antagonize your father at present does not seem the wisest path,” Imrahil stared into his cup, not drinking and deep in thought.

Boromir’s jaw tightened. He had been back only a few days, and the need for diplomacy above all else in this family was already wearing beyond his ability to bear it. He knew it had always been this way, but he had never needed to mind his father’s moods as closely as this. Perhaps closely was the wrong word, since his father had not let Boromir enter his sight for two days now, “What else did he say?”

Imrahil thought a moment longer before looking at his nephew, “What is the King of Rohan’s interest in my daughter?”

“I think his interest honorable, if that is what you mean to ask.”

“That is not what I asked, nor did I ask for your commentary, “Your father seems decidedly concerned on that matter, and seems to think there is something between my daughter and King Eomer.”

Boromir grimaced, “He bears her a good deal of affection and fondness, and he would hope to court her if such a thing would be allowed,” he began, trying to run through everything that had happened in Rohan and sort the events in to the categories of things he could say, and what he could not. “I allowed them to spend time in each other’s company, and I chaperoned them to ensure nothing untoward occurred. Nothing I saw between them would discourage the thought that they might make a good match. They seem…” Boromir hesitated a moment, “They seem to get on well enough.”

Imrahil looked at Boromir, leaning forward a little, “You have not been able to speak to your father, and as such have not been able to tell him that you broke the betrothal.”

“He will barely look at me or suffer my presence. I know his mood will pass and improve, but I do not know how long I will suffer this, nor do I wish to imagine what Lothiriel might be suffering.” He stood, pacing the room and trying to think where else he could look. He had searched through every place he could think of and had found no trace of his cousin. Perhaps she had been moved. He would need to search again and look through every nook and cranny.

It occurred to him suddenly that he should have told Eomer that Lothiriel was missing, but he had not wanted rest any further burdens on the young king further than he already bore. There was also the fact that Boromir was certain Eomer would call all of men into the citadel and tear every door off of its hinges and ransack every room until they found Lothiriel. At least that would be effective, if a bit destructive.

“I might not think kindly on a match that would take my daughter so far from my home, as I have missed her from my life,” Imrahil said, slowly, “I would rather her make a match in our lands, and closer to her family.”

“Would you refuse them? I think King Eomer will ask to court Lothiriel when the war is ended,” Boromir reiterated, wanting to get an answer one way or the other as to whether or not Imrahil would support to such a thing, or at least not interfere against it.

Shaking his head at Boromir’s attempt at casual conversation as a means to draw information, “At present that right sits with _your_ father, and not with hers. But, if it sat with me, I would allow King Eomer to pay court to my daughter. And, if I was certain that they would be so well suited as you think, I might assent to such a marriage,” Imrahil said, “but that matter is not as pressing as others that we face, and I might ask for some time with my daughter before I lose her again.”

For a moment, Imrahil considered how it might look if they publicly announced that Lothiriel was no longer betrothed to Boromir and then in the next breath announced that she was pursuing a relationship with a foreign king. There were benefits and shortcomings to it as far as Imrahil could see. It would be a good match from a political point of view, and they might be able to argue that, but there might be the assumption that the match had been made because of some improper action between his daughter and that King. Working out the machinations that would need to be undertaken was already giving Imrahil a dull headache, but the wine would help with that. He tried for a moment to remind himself that this was his daughter’s life, and he would need to discuss this with her, and to let the decision rest with her to some degree.

Boromir nodded, “I cannot speak for her, but I think she would be glad to hear you missed her.”

“I have not seen my daughter in over a year’s time and before that for only a few days twice yearly, how could I not miss her?” The indignant words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

The answer did not need to be said, they both knew well enough that there had been enough misunderstood signs and hints and the regret of every action that had pushed Lothiriel away was heavy on Imrahil’s heart. He had only ever wanted to protect his daughter and had at every decision chosen wrong.

“We will find her,” Boromir said, “Wherever she is.”

0x0x0

The news of Lothiriel’s coming to the city, said in passing, struck a joyous chord in Eomer’s heart until Aragorn went to explain that she had come into the city the day before and had in weariness had taken to her chambers and not yet come out, having asked that no one disturb her for any reason.

He had been lent a room in the citadel and understood that it was an honor as much as a necessity as they sorted through the plans for the rest of the war, but he left the citadel in a daze. He needed to be among his own people for a moment without the need to gild his words and actions.

He wondered if she had been talked into staying in her rooms, if her family had listened to her intentions as far as he was concerned, and if they had meant to speak some sense to her and had convinced her not to spend another moment with him. Perhaps she had come to that decision on her own, or perhaps he had been right in thinking that she was only using him as a distraction or some form of entertainment.

He could not make himself understand the difference that seemed to have occurred in the last few days as he remembered the feeling of her slim body next to him, curled up in sleep and comfortable, humming quietly as he smoothed his fingers through her hair. She had seemed so earnest.

Perhaps he was overreacting, and perhaps it was only that Lothiriel was tired from a hard ride, but she had not looked for him, or sent word, or even told Boromir to tell him that she was alright. He might be going mad if this was all it took to send him wandering aimlessly into the camp of his army. It would not be completely unforgiveable if he was to lose his sanity just a little after everything that had happened since coming to this place. But if he let himself lose control and slip back into disarray he might not come back. The madness that had taken him at seeing Eowyn’s body, and at assuming her death had been all consuming, and having come out of it, he never wanted to go back into that madness. He knew that a tendency toward melancholic thought ran in his family, and having suffered it, did his best to keep such tendencies at arm’s reach.

“My Lord King,” Eothain stood, dramatically.

“Hold your tongue,” Eomer pushed his friend’s shoulder, before dropping to sit next to him, “I do not need your attempts at wit, I come for council.”

“I am so greatly honored, sire,” Eothain teased again, “Tell me how I may aid you and I swear to lay down my life! My sword is yours to command.”

Eomer shook his head, “How has your wife not killed you in your sleep?”

“The secret to my survival is that I keep all the swords and knives on shelves above what she might reach.”

“And you own no chairs on which Waerhild might climb?”

“I had not considered that… I must burn all the chairs!”

Eomer laughed, “I should hate to remind you that there are knives in your kitchen.”

Eothain pulled a horrified face, “Has she been hoarding them and plotting my murder? Egad!” He laughed, breaking the jest, and studying Eomer for a moment, “What do you need, my friend?”

“Lothiriel is in Minas Tirith.”

“And this is some terrible scourge on your existence because… Oh, it is not!” Eothain said, “Unless you’ve had some quarrel, but you stand unharmed, so I doubt that.”

“We have not, because I have not seen her.”

“When did she arrive?”

“Yesterday.”

Eothain sighed, patting Eomer’s shoulder, “Clearly she despises you, and never wants to see you again. You must resign yourself to a long life of solitude and isolation.”

“Do you think so?” Eomer asked.

“No, you dullard,” Eothain exclaimed, surprised that Eomer would ask that, and shoving his shoulder before pausing, “Am I still allowed to insult you, or must I only speak to you with deference?”

“I have not yet been crowned,” Eomer said, irritably.

“No, but you are not going to have me drawn and quartered for calling you names, are you?”

“I give you a dispensation, as long as the names you call me are not treasonous.”

“Excellent. I want an official document that says so, and I want to have it displayed in my house.”

Eomer groaned, shaking his head, smiling a little, trying to decide if he could have such a thing made in Gondor, and if that might in fact render it rather useless, “Whatever you ask shall be granted by The Crown.”

“So, what is the matter, truly?”

“Lothiriel is in the city,” Eomer reiterated.

“Yes, and I fail to see how that is a bad thing,” Eothain smiled back, waiting for the bad news to follow the good, because it could not simply be what Eomer had already said. Had the Princess’ family heard that the pair of them were, well a pair, and been cruel to his friend, his King? Eomer had always been more than a little dramatic, and his moods had sometimes swung about a little erratically, but this sorrowful slump in his shoulders must have some greater source than that Lothiriel had simply not spoken to him in a day.

“She arrived yesterday morning, and I only learned of it from Aragorn who told me, thinking that I knew,” Eomer looked at his friend slowly, “I had assumed that she had returned to Edoras.”

“She gave no word of her arrival, not even through Lord Boromir?” Eothain asked.

“Apparently, she said that she needed rest, and that she wished for no one to disturb her.”

“Then you think too much of something that is simple, and I am not entirely certain what you expect me to say, unless it is to reiterate that you are acting as a man driven quite mad,” Eothain said, “Celibacy does not seem to agree with you, Eomer.”

“Do not make a jest of my concern.”

“You just told me I was allowed to mock you, sire.”

“In general, I would not complain of it, but at present I would rather hear some measure of sympathy, or at the very least earnestness,” Eomer said, his voice low.

Eothain stared back, somewhat struck by how completely defeated Eomer looked over an inconvenience so minor. “And I am doing my best to give you an earnest answer. Her Highness would have had to ride for two days to get herself here,” he said slowly. “In all likelihood, she entered the city and collapsed from exhaustion. There is nothing so terrible in that. I have not seen anything in her that would make me think that your feeling is not shared.”

“But-”

“No,” Eothain said, cutting his friend short, “things might be hard for a time, while you two sort the rest of this all out, but I doubt it will be as bad as you want to assume… How is the family?”

“Complicated from what little bit I could gather,” Eomer grumbled, “They began speaking to each other in their own language and did not stop for the whole of dinner.”

“The Steward is…?” Eothain asked, desperate for the gossip that Eomer could give, either confirming what they had heard or reputing it.

“I cannot be certain of him. He seems, stern but fair from what I have seen of him, but there has been some talk that he has not been entirely himself of late.”

Eothain thought for a moment, “and Lothiriel has been in his custody since she was sixteen?”

“Yes,” Eomer wondered who had told him that, and if he had been gossiping with the Gondorian soldiers. He wondered what they had said, and what Eothain had told them as well.

“There might be… do you think perhaps she has been forbidden to leave her rooms?”

That had occurred to Eomer, but had seemed the most minor of possibilities, and suddenly felt ashamed that he had not given it more weight. It was not that he thought Prince Imrahil would order her to do so, not only because it might not be entirely in his power to do so, but more because Imrahil thus far had seemed an understanding sort of man, though as strict as the rest of the Gondorian Lords he had met.

Lothiriel had told him that she feared returning and had told him enough that Eomer had been surprised by the Steward when he had met him. Denethor had struck him as a sad and lonely old man, and perhaps more afraid than capable of inspiring fear in others. That said, he wondered by what power he had influenced Lothiriel thus far, and what control he might still think to extend over her.

“If Lord Denethor had done, I would hope that she would disregard him,” Eomer said, making it clear that he understood how hard such a think might be for her. The underlying anxiety of Lothiriel not sending word to him, and what he could not honestly make himself tell, was that Eomer worried that having been back in Denethor’s household she would lose what self-possession she had gained.

Now, that new fear that gripped him was that not she had decided after a few days that she no longer wanted him. Now he feared more that now being in her uncle’s keeping she would not be able to act upon her own wishes. What if that fire that he had seen in their weeks together was again lost to whatever influences her uncle held over her? Then he would have let himself feel so for her and to no end but frustration and heartbreak.

Eomer looked at his friend, as if asking for confirmation, and met a steady gaze as if Eothain was studying him and trying to work out the tense strain of his brow with that gaze, or else to reckon out what it was he was really thinking. There had seldom enough been secrets between them, but Eomer reasoned that his thoughts were not so much secret as private. Lothiriel’s fears were not his to speak, or to let be overheard and become gossip.

He had not told Eothain that Lothiriel had slept in his bed at Dunharrow, or that she had come to him with the intention of giving herself to him entirely. It was not because he worried that his friend would judge or gossip, but more that the memory of it was a single warming ember that he had, and he wanted to keep it to himself without questions or jokes.

He wished that the situation had been differently on so many levels, most of them far beyond their control, and that he could have gone back into that bed and spoken with her in soft tones, and gently stripped her of her clothes. He wished that the action of making love to her would have been as beautiful as he felt the very idea of it was, and that her family would not see it as ruining her. But he knew that fantasizing about how things could have been would not be any help, because he had made the choice that he had to, hard as it had been.

It did not stop him from doing so. He missed her presence and did not know why he should feel as he did, but that feeling thus there was nothing to be done but to seek her out.

“I beg your pardon,” Eomer said, “I must find Lord Boromir and speak with him of some matters.”

“Kingly matters?” Eothain smirked, “Or the matters that you find more pressing?”

Eomer shot him a look, “I think you fear that I will seek council elsewhere or else find some other companionship.”

“I fear no such thing, my lord king,” Eothain replied casually, “For while Lord Boromir may play the fool, I think he is not in truth so, and as such I am far more amusing.”

Eomer shook his head, “I may be allowed to not comment one way or the other on your assessments, my friend.” He paused a moment, before tousling Eothain’s hair carefully avoiding the swatting hands of his closest friend and laughing as he did so. “But your position in my esteem is secure, if you are so concerned as that.”


	14. Chapter 14

He found Boromir entirely by accident having almost tripped over him in a darkened corner of the citadel, bleary eyed and offended at having been stumbled over. Eomer found Gondor, thus far and for all the pretention that he had seen of societal superiority, rather unimpressive.

“Have you seen Lothiriel?” Eomer asked, dragging Boromir to his feet and wondering how Lothiriel had managed to carry the man’s weight across the Great Hall.

“Are you looking for her, too?” Boromir asked, his voice slurring and laughing as he spoke, “well, I can tell you that she is not in the wine cellar, for I have searched it beyond what could be called a decent look.”

“Will you speak plainly?” Eomer asked irritably, settling Boromir back against the wall and waiting for him to slide along the stones back to the ground, but was somewhat pleased that the man planted his feet and locked his knees, and stayed forward a little before settling back.

“I have done, or have I not?” Boromir laughed, he reached his hands out and clasped Eomer’s shoulders, “Who can say where any person might be or do, beyond the places that certainty would state?”

“Has she yet said that she would accept visitors, or no?”

“If my cousin will meet with anyone, if I may speak as plainly as you would wish, I would rip the hairs from my head in irritation, for she is nowhere that I have been able to find.”

“You are drunk.”

“Yes, but only because having been dealt my own father’s disdain I do not actively seek hers.”

“I do not understand you,” Eomer studied the older man’s face, trying to make sense of his words, “Has Lothiriel rested, or is she in your father’s keeping?”

“I can find no confirmation of one thing or the other, though one might think that one of the possibilities must be true,” Boromir’s eyes focused for a moment, and it looked as if he meant to say something, but the moment passed and he leaned forward, staggering, “You know, I think when I die, I would like to not be made to do anything.”

“You are not dead yet, and I should think to ask where you have been, but I think the answer is clear enough.”

“I am not in my father’s favor for once, and I have removed myself to the best of my ability from any further scorn.”

“Why? Did you tell him that you had broken the betrothal, then?”

Boromir laughed, “No, you sweet boy,” he patted Eomer’s cheek, “I did not bring him… how much have you been told?”

Eomer stared back before looking over his shoulders and lowered his voice, “Your father wanted to use the ring?”

“He wanted me to bring it, and he was certain all would be well,” Boromir said, “and now I am disgraced, though my father sent my brother to die, and is now quite comfortable.”

Eomer did not feel the need to further the conversation and was willing to bet all that he would get nothing but riddles out of Lord Boromir at present, “you might take some rest, my friend.”

“Are we indeed friends?” Boromir asked, smiling a little.

“Of course.”

He leaned on Eomer’s shoulder, “Well, then… help me to my rooms so that I may recover my senses. I seem to have lost my feet.”

Eomer bit down hard on his back teeth and slung Boromir’s arm over his shoulder and shifted their weight and carried him back to his rooms with only a minor complaint or two.

“I want to sell flowers,” Boromir all but giggled, resting against Eomer’s shoulder, “I like flowers, and perhaps had I been born to a different life I would have a lovely garden and sell flowers to all the fine families of the west.”

“I am certain you would,” Eomer said, trying his best to be agreeable and sympathetic. Boromir clearly knew more than he could say or confirm. Eomer carried Boromir through the citadel listening to a long lecture on the importance of color and arrangement, and did his best not to either drop Boromir by the side of a corridor, or laugh, as Boromir seemed determined in the importance of a trade that he wished he had been able to take up.

0x0x0

Lothiriel stated at the wall, not looking at her uncle, and waiting for him to tell her what she already knew, that her virtue could not be questioned, and that there was no evidence that she had behaved badly. She wanted to leave this room, and she wanted to scream into the open air until she felt again that she had moved past her own rage. She confined her fury into a box and pushed it down into herself with all of the others.

“My own darling girl,” Denethor’s voice was all honey, “are you prepared to rejoin us all?”

She breathed heavily, “Dare I ask what the further cost would be?”

“Why must there be one?” Denethor asked, crossing to her, and stroking her cheek gently, “The only ‘cost’ that I would ask is the same that I already expect, that you mind yourself, and act as a member of this court, and as a member of this household ought,” his face softened as he looked back at her, “You left with no word, at first I thought someone had taken you, or that you had run afoul of some danger, and…” his hands shook a little until he folded them tightly together, “I could hardly sleep for worrying.”

She stared back at him, knowing that she never should have come back, but feeling the number of responsibilities weighing down on her. Her uncle needed her, though and she could see the fear of abandonment in his eyes, a fear that she had cemented there by leaving him in the first place. She should have forsaken her father’s concern as he had forsaken her and stayed by Denethor’s side. His madness was not of her making, but she had not done enough to stop its coming. She could have managed him better than she had done.

Denethor rested his hands on her shoulders gently, pulling her to her feet, “My girl, I am sorry for doing this to you, I know it was inexcusable, but I have so feared for your wellbeing these last weeks, I fear I may have gone a little mad.” He seemed so terribly afraid, and it made her want to weep. “Your absence has pained me so and I fear losing you again. Please, will you stay with me?”

“Uncle, I am weary and need to wash.”

“Do I have your forgiveness?” he asked, blocking her way from the room.

“Of course,” she said, and meaning it. She could understand in a way why he had locked her in, in some way, and perhaps she did deserve it. Afterall, she had not behaved as well as she ought to have in Rohan. She had not behaved as a princess, and she had almost… no, she would not even think of that, fearing that it would show in her eyes and she would be left in this room even longer.

“I have already spoken to your lord father and know that he is aggrieved of this as well.”

“My father?”

“We decided that it would be best to keep you away from public gaze until we were certain that your person had not been degraded. I might recommend not speaking of it, for your father’s will has been much weakened by this battle.”

She nodded slowly, feeling herself drawing back into herself. This had been sanctioned by the entire family, then. She could imagine the group of men huddling by candlelight doing their best to find a solution to the problems that she posed. Had her father sent her a warning to flee the city out of concern, or to destabilize her position of strength and resistance to them? Her father might have thought to strike at Denethor, now that she thought about it. “May I be excused, my lord?”

0x0x0

Sliding into the hot water, Lothiriel closed her eyes and wanted to sleep. Her back ached from sleeping on the stone floor, and from the tension in her body. If she could just sleep for a few days, perhaps she might be able to let it all go. Her nerves felt frayed, and the guilt of it all began to wear on her even more. Had she not considered that she would be missed? She had feared her return and what her uncle might have done. But if he had feared for her so much as that, and he loved her so dearly, she might do well to forgive him.

Lothiriel had heard that sometimes love made people do strange things, and perhaps that would excuse it. Her own impulsive feeling had almost made her do something that upon reflection would have rendered her completely without value. She had almost thrown her reputation into the gutter just to comfort Eomer, King Eomer…

She closed her eyes and tried not to smile at the idea of him, of seeing him, or being in the same room as him, and perhaps she might touch his hand in passing. There might be moments where she could steal him away, if she arranged it properly…

“Your Highness, are you through?” Anthel asked, her dour face blank of expression as she held the drying cloth out in front of her.

Lothiriel rose out of the water slowly, wondering if she had ever been friendly with her handmaid, and how she had come to be in this position. Ladies chose their own handmaids, and Lothiriel could not yet recall how she had come to hire this woman, try hard as she might.

Dried and having had lotions scented with floral oils rubbed into her skin and her hair, Lothiriel stood in uneasy quiet as Anthel dried and combed her hair. There was something in the company of her servant that raised her hackles a little.

Anthel was quiet as she laced Lothiriel into her stays a little too tightly.

“You might loosen them a little,” Lothiriel said, doing her best to keep her voice level and disinterested, and to keep her hands from pressing against her ribs.

“I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but you have put on some weight,” Anthel’s dark eyes went to the floor.

Lothiriel raised a brow and went to pick up her dress, dark sapphire blue, from the foot of her bed and held it up over her, measuring out the fabric, and pinching the side, “Not so much as you seem to think. Loosen them so that I do not faint, if it please you.” She turned a chilling look on the maid before stepping back into her place in front of her, facing away, and trying to check her temper.

She had not had to wear such things as stay in the Mark, and it had been far more comfortable. Loose as some of her gowns were, Lothiriel wondered if she might be able to get away with not wearing the confining undergarments at all.

“I am glad that you are returned safely returned, your highness,” Anthel said after a moment of awkward silence, waiting until Lothiriel could breathe a little easier.

“Thank you,” Lothiriel said, not sure what else she could say, “the People of Rohan were very kind and offered me safe keeping.”

The Handmaid sniffed dismissively, trying the stays closed.

“What?” Lothiriel asked, raising a brow, even if her maid could not see it as she stepped into her mules.

“You might do well not to speak of their hospitality openly as there might be some unspoken inference of impropriety,” Anthel said in a low voice.

“There was no impropriety,” Lothiriel said, looking back at her, irritated in her maid’s impertinence.

“I should not speak, your highness.”

“No, but you already have done,” Lothiriel replied, staring at the wan face in the mirror as Anthel laced up the back of her dress, “So speak on.”

“The new King of Rohan has asked after you more than once from what I have heard, and you know that the people of Rohan are…”

“Are what?” Lothiriel asked, trying to check her blush that Eomer had asked for her, or about her. Failing to keep her color under control, she decided to be offended, which she was, but could offer an explanation for the red color coming in her cheeks.

“They so uncivilized in their ways. Any hint of improper attention, whether true or not may damage your reputation,” Anthel said as if she had no greater concern that Lothiriel’s happiness, but the princess had the impression that the concern was more for her position as handmaid to a decent and highborn lady.

Lothiriel glared at her maid’s reflection, “Lord Eomer has been nothing but appropriate. And having lived among the Rohirrim, I can assert that many of our assumptions about them are unfounded. They are kind-hearted people, and our closest allies, and I do not think that I should like to hear them defamed as brutes and savages.”

“Princess…”

Lothiriel raised a brow at Anthel in the glass mirror, silencing her maid with the look. She found that she rather liked the power of silencing people without a word. Lothiriel rubbed perfumed lotion on the skin of her hands.

There of course had been impropriety, but she had been more to blame than Eomer, King Eomer, she reminded herself again. He had been kind to her and had saved herself from her own silliness. If she had been inspected and found to be no longer a maiden, her uncle would likely have kept her in that room, or another like it, for the rest of his life.

She found her reflection strange even if she knew it was her face. The silk dress was lovely she would have to be careful not to wrinkle the fabric. Her head felt heavy from the way her hair was styled and pinned. She was nervous about shifting her head and moving the entire coifed confection, and she would have to walk without moving her upper body much at all, her stays made that easier, and they made her stand and sit straight, even if she felt a little bit like a sausage.

There was a soft knock at the door, and she called out for whoever it was to enter, trying to stop feeling as if she was play acting as someone that she wasn’t.

Her father came into the room with some slow hesitance, looking at her as if he was not certain that he would actually find her here. His smile seemed bittersweet as he looked at her.

Lothiriel rose slowly, and curtsied, “My Lord Father.” Looking at him was harder than it ought to have been. She had been clinging to the assurances that Eomer had made, with no understanding of her family, that her father must love her even if he did not show it. This last punishment made affirmation of what she had always worried; that her father loved her only because he had to, and she felt some shred of vindication in the look on his face, which she took for embarrassment over the part he had played in her imprisonment. Brief as the punishment had, she knew it was as much a warning as anything else, that it was meant to ensure she behave she ought, “That will be all, Anthel.”

Her handmaid curtsied quickly and darted from the room. Lothiriel wondered who was supplementing her income for information.

Her father made his way over to her and hugged her fiercely.

It startled her a little, but she accepted the gesture as the extension of the apology her father muttered. He did not expound his apology or the reason for it, nor did she expect him to, as their family from what she knew of it was comfortable making amends without ever speaking of the offending action again.

Imrahil clasped her face in his hands and looked at her, his mouth opening and closing as if he had thought to say or ask something and decided it was not worth the words.

In truth, he had begun to ask where she had been, but seeing the distant look in her eyes, knew better than to ask. Imrahil wished he could simply speak naturally with his youngest child, the daughter that he had always wanted, but knew that Denethor had likely splintered what trust she held in him, and which he had been trying to keep. This problem in their family, and by extension their country would need to be sorted somehow, but none of the solutions he had come to were yet acceptable.

“How were your travels?” Imrahil smiled, studying her face, “I hear you were safe in Rohan, and it seems you made quite a few well-placed friends.”

“My time away from home was perfectly agreeable,” she said, smiling delicately pulling away from his hold, and taking a seat on one of the chaises in her sitting room, shifting her skirts around herself as she did so.

Imrahil took a seat near her, his head tilting a little, “You were at the Battle of the Hornburg, were you not?”

She kept her smile in place, “Yes, but I was in the caves with the children and the other women.”

“And you dispensed medical aid to the soldiers after?”

There was a hard edge in that smile, waiting to be told that such a thing was not decent or ladylike.

“The new King of Rohan speaks well of you,” Imrahil smiled, trying his best to coax her into relaxing a little.

What had Eomer said, she wondered, doing her best not to show anything, not that she knew him beyond acquaintance, or that she wanted to know what he had said about her, or how he was or…

“He said that his family offered you sanctuary and protection in Meduseld.”

She nodded, “yes.”

“And that you have become quite friendly with his sister,” Imrahil went on, wanting her to take some part in the conversation beyond being cagey answers of such few words.

“How is Lady Eowyn, do you know?”

“She is recovering, and quite irritated at being kept in the Houses of Healing from what I have heard,” Imrahil smiled.

Lothiriel almost laughed, imagining anyone trying to keep Eowyn in her room. The thought dampened quickly. Eowyn would have never gone into the damn closet, and she would have found a way out.

“Faramir is there, as well.”

Lothiriel stared at her father in silence, waiting to be told how or why in more detail that she had been given.

“Your Lord Uncle bid Faramir retake Osgiliath, in spite of all sense and reason, and in spite of council against it,” Imrahil watched her eyes widen a fraction, “Our King has healed your cousin, and Lady Eowyn, and the halfling Merry. I want to ask you something, and I want your honest answer.”

Lothiriel nodded slowly at the information that she already had, bracing herself for any number of uncomfortable questions.

“Lord Aragorn, Our King, seems a good and honorable man, but you know that your uncle will fear losing power to him. Should there be such a fear? Do you think Aragorn will change our status, or let things stay as they have?”

She swallowed, “I do not think that there is cause for concern. From what I know of Lord Aragorn, he will want as little turmoil as possible.”

“That is what Boromir said, but I fear Denethor is not at present willing to believe that.”

“How do you mean?”

“He feels that Boromir has betrayed us by allying himself to Aragorn,” Imrahil said, still watching her, “and there is another matter, but I will not discuss it, yet.”

“I know that Boromir was sent to Imladris for a reason, there was some weapon that had been found?” She said, wanting to forestall whatever other matter there was.

“Yes and no,” Imrahil said, smiling wearily, “It is… quite a secret thing, and the less you know of it, the better you will sleep.”

She almost snapped at her father, asking if he thought she had slept well in the closet, but she stopped herself, “Yes, my lord.”

He took a deep breath, before leaning forward a little and asking in a low voice, “Are you alright?”

“Of course,” she said, the placid smile back in place.

“Lothiriel, if you do not talk to me, I cannot help you.”

There was a careful fear in her father’s eyes that she could not decipher. Perhaps he really did mean to help her, and had nothing to do with her being locked in. But if that was the case, how did he expect to help her? If her father had not been involved as her uncle had claimed, then he either believed whatever story Denethor had concocted and was a fool or else he was useless.

“I am perfectly fine, though I am a little tired.”

Imrahil sat back, looking unsatisfied by the answer she gave, “I never wanted this for you,” he admitted, “I only sent you here… I thought you might make a marriage easily than in Dol Amroth, and a better one.”

“Then why give up your custody of me?” she asked before she could stop herself.

“It was a moment of weakness, and I regret it every day,” Imrahil said, “Denethor said it would be in your best interest, that there were already suitors and that it would certainly be easier for him to supervise your life than needing to write back to me for assent.”

A fool and useless, then, Lothiriel thought, trying not to feel depressed at the realization, flawed as she knew it was. Her father was a smart man in the ways of politics and of managing people’s hopes, but she still could not quite reconcile his reason for the abandonment that he had done of her, in slow increments, with anything else.

Her father took her hand suddenly, squeezing it, “I have wanted you to come home and to stay for years, but whenever I have asked Denethor to consider it, I have been dismissed, and told that it was better to let you live as you were.”

She did not want his reasons or explanations. She wanted him to have taken more care of her, to not have passed her from cold hand to cold hand through her entire life without the attention to who he was handing her to. She wanted him to have taken more than a few moments of thought in her life to realize what had been done to her by each of these people; governess, school, uncle.

But she wanted to forgive him and believe that he loved her and that he regretted it as much as he said he did. That hope felt dangerous, though, and she simply smiled, and nodded as if she understood, and tried not to let her eyes prick with tears.

“You know that I love you, child,” Imrahil said, almost pleading with her.

She nodded again, feeling as though if she had was not ready to acknowledge his words aloud.

Imrahil’s grasp on her hand softened, but did not release, as he debated words, and thoughts that he had too long held in his breast beating in his chest. He had failed her, and when she had come for visits, she had not seemed like a person, but like something that had been made by a mold of delicate, sophisticated ladies, with ears for gossip and intrigue, and tongues made for delightful conversation or for cutting the very spirit of a person to shreds.

There had been a time when she was so young where she had come running to him and begging him for attention, having slipped her governess’ watch, or seeming to want him to know of some mischief she had been about. Sometimes he had indulged her and sat with her and played at some game, but more often had waved her off with promises of tomorrow. He wished he could go back and undo everything he had ever done and be able to have his daughter actually speak to him and confide in him. He wished that he had more often sought her out in the nursery and sat with her and told her that she had been so dearly wanted. He wished she trusted him.

“Your Uncle wants us all in his study before dinner,” Imrahil said after a moment, standing and offering her his arm.

She took his arm and walked beside him quietly along the corridor to the study. Her eyes cut to the door that had kept her in for a day, before she forced her eyes ahead, cursing her own weakness.

The study was lit by candles and a crackling fire which was strange considering the warmth that the sun had not fully taken as it set. Lothiriel’s mind went through the reasons for that fire quickly, because her uncle did little without reason.

Lothiriel curtsied and her father bowed before she took a seat in front of her uncle’s desk, trying to work out what this was about, and what level of anxiety was appropriate, trying not to flinch at her father’s hand as he rested it momentarily on her shoulder. She looked sideways at Boromir where he leaned against the wall, looking as if he had slept in a ditch and was quickly splashed with some water to get the worst of the muck off of him. At least his clothes were clean enough. He did not meet her gaze, watching his father with a careful gaze, the shadow of his brow mixing with the darkness under his eyes.

“I have decided that we are going to put all the unpleasantness of the last few days behind us,” Denethor said suddenly, smiling, “Boromir, you are forgiven, and may be expected at table.”

Boromir smiled graciously, waiting for the other shoe to drop, “Thank you, father.”

“Of course,” Denethor said quickly before going on, “There was a matter that I think more important, all things currently considered. You both know that we will take council with the other lords and the ranger in the morning,” Denethor said, looking between Imrahil and Boromir, “and you know what will be discussed.”

The men nodded their agreement, and Lothiriel bit down on her rage. Her uncle had used to keep her informed, and now she was relegated to the children’s corner while decisions were made and discussed.

“We need to get our line sorted, my son,” Denethor went on, “And though it might not be conventional, I think it best we do what we can to move forward with the wedding, at least in an official and legal sense. By Grace,” Denethor smiled at Lothiriel, “we might get an heir in case things do not go as we hope.”

No amount of training and practice could have kept Lothiriel’s face composed, but at least her mouth didn’t hang open at the decision. The ending of so many romantic and tragic tales leapt to her mind, unbidden, and she could almost see herself standing at the edge of some cliff, ready to toss herself to her death rather than submit to an unwanted marriage. Her head turned to look at Boromir, her eye almost twitching.

Boromir looked back at her, as horrified, but a little more restrained, “Father. I know that this union would be…” he tried to find the most diplomatic way to go about this, before giving up, “I will not marry Lothiriel.”

“Oh, you will,” Denethor said, easily as if assuring his son that some terrible news was exaggerated or else was a flat out lie, “Have we not all agreed?”

Lothiriel frowned. She still could not remember agreeing, and she wracked her brain for anything more than the quick flashes of memory she had of hearing that her father had agreed, and that she had all but torn a few pillows apart in her rage. “Did I?” she asked suddenly, studying her uncle, “Did I agree?”

“You did, my darling girl.”

“Then you certainly would have my signature on the contract,” she said, raising her brow a fraction.

“You gave your word, and there was no need-”

“Then I beg your pardon, but there is no proof that I did agree, and I have been certainly trying to remember doing so for the last weeks.”

Denethor’s eyes narrowed at her, “Are you saying that I would lie?”

“I am more thinking that perhaps there was a misunderstanding,” Lothiriel said, feeling far braver than she ought to have.

“Are you raising your voice to me, young lady?” Denethor asked, the underlying threat clear in his voice.

“Lothiriel is only acting to defend me,” Boromir said suddenly, standing straighter, and coming to stand behind her, “I broke off the betrothal over a week ago, father.”

Denethor’s gaze cut quickly between the cousins, trying to decide who he was more furious at. It was such a simple solution to everything, and it would change little. Why could they not see that he did this for their benefits? Lothiriel could stay safe where she had been so happy and would be second only to the Queen if they had one. Boromir would finally have a family of his own and would be able to be happy. Why could they not see it?

It suddenly occurred to Denethor that the fourth person in the room was being surprisingly quiet at this upset. He turned to look at Imrahil and was surprised by the careful way the Prince was watching him.

“Then you are, the three of you, in agreement?” Denethor said, leaning back in his seat, “And for some reason, none of you thought to include me in whatever secret meeting you held to decide this?”

“You were not excluded from anything, and there was no meeting as far as I know,” Imrahil said, his voice level, “If they do not want to marry, I simply do not think it would be right to force them.”

“This is not as simple a matter as whether or not a farmer in the fields might marry!” Denethor said, sitting forward again, “Your daughter is almost one and twenty years! If she is not married soon, we might as well send her to a sitting room to be a spinster aunt the same as our sister, Imrahil.”

Imrahil kept his breathing level, biting back the correction that Ivriniel was his sister, that there was no “our” in this family. “Boromir, Lothiriel, go along to the Hall. We will be along in a few minutes.”

Lothiriel looked at her father for a moment before standing and curtsying to her uncle and leaving the room as gracefully as she could manage with Boromir damn near breathing down her neck to move faster before Denethor threw something at them.

Closing the door, Boromir took Lothiriel’s hand in his and all but ran down the stairs, his face a bizarre composition of relief and terror.

“Slow down!” She hissed, trying to keep up, “My legs are shorter than yours!”

He slowed a little, then stopped short, “What do you think they are saying?”

“I cannot say,” Lothiriel said, looking back over her shoulder, “What did you tell my father about Eomer?”

“Only that I approved, and that you both seemed fond of each other, and that I chaperoned you,” Boromir said the last part with significance, staring at her, and then looking over her shoulder again, “Your father might agree to at least a courtship, but I have a feeling it will be more involved than would be ideal.”

“We already assumed that,” she scoffed.

“Where were you?” Boromir asked suddenly, “Your father and I looked everywhere.”

“What did uncle say?” she asked, wanting to know what story he had contrived to make her absence believable when Aragorn knew that she had come to the city, and not daring to ask if her father had actually dirtied himself so far as to look through the crevices of the citadel in search of her.

“That you had withdrawn to your rooms out of weariness,” Boromir said quickly, wanting her to just tell him already.

“You know that small storage room beside his study?” Lothiriel began, raising a brow at him.

Boromir’s eyes widened, “No.”

“I was locked in, for a day and a half,” she said as if discussing a pleasant trip or holiday, her voice light, “The midwife came for a visit, it was quite terrible, as I had nothing to offer her but cobwebs.”

“But she did not find anything other than it ought to be?”

She swatted his arm, at the question, her face turning red, “I am still…”

Boromir smiled, and rested a hand on her shoulder, “We are going to get through this with dignity and grace. I will be with you every step of the way.”

“I am afraid,” she admitted quietly.

“Of what?” Boromir squeezed her shoulder a little to encourage her to look up at him.

“Your father is never going to let me go, is he?” she asked, her brow furrowed.

“He will have to in time,” Boromir assured her, even if he did not believe it, “Now, we had best get along, your Eorlinga has been quite missing you, I think.”

Lothiriel almost smiled and slipped her hand back into the crook of his arm, “You know, I am absolutely famished, cousin.”

0x0x0

His heart almost stopped the moment he saw Princess Lothiriel in her dark blue silk dress, and Eomer’s gaze didn’t leave her, waiting for her eyes to find him, as her gaze shifted with practiced disinterest over the assembled people in the hall. She found him, and he held her gaze, begging the pardons of Gamling and Lord Elfhelm, the pair of them smirking at each other and saying nothing beyond their quick bows.

Lothiriel smiled at him across the hall, a quick look that sent a thrill through his breast.

Lothiriel dropped into a deep and graceful curtsy before the embarrassed Aragorn. Rising back up, Lothiriel smiled at the King of Gondor who had been doing his best to become comfortable with the deference that was given him, in spite of the fact that he was not yet crowned. Eomer wondered if Aragorn would become more comfortable with the gestures when he had been crowned, he would certainly need to.

He wondered so because Eomer was still discomforted by such things, having thought that he would have more time to become comfortable with such things before they were flung at him.

“Your Highness,” Eomer bowed to her, feeling as if he was observing a unique bird in her natural habitat.

She curtsied again, “Your Majesty.”

“I was just thanking Princess Lothiriel for what advice she was able to give on relief efforts and medical care,” Aragorn said carefully.

“I would beg you to think nothing of it,” she said, blushing a little at the praise. It was genuine and for a good cause, and she wondered if she had ever received such praise in this place.

“I thought you were going to stay in Edoras,” Eomer said in a low tone.

“I might have done better to do so, and wait for news,” Lothiriel admitted, glancing between the men, trying to decide what she should say. She trusted all of them, but to speak in a way that might cast an ill light on her uncle could cause disgrace.

There was something in her eyes that disquieted Eomer more than a little. It was like fear but hidden as well as she could manage.

He noted Boromir’s hand on her shoulder, a gentle squeeze, and there was something said in silence in the quick look between the cousins that Eomer took as some assurance passing from one to the other.

“I may have begun a row between our fathers,” Boromir said in the same low tone, “so prepare for whatever comes of that.”

“I am not certain that we need infighting at the moment,” Aragorn said wearily.

“It was quite unavoidable, I can assure you,” Lothiriel demurred, keeping her eyes on the stone floor, her mind whirling ahead of her, trying to plan for any contingency. Her mind was moving quickly, but she was beginning to reach the point where she could keep up, and decide that her concerns were stupid, and that there were more pressing things than her family.

Boromir squeezed her shoulder again, checking the distance of people around them. He knew what points existed in the hall that would carry a voice and they blessedly were not in one. He turned a slow and disinterested look about the hall, “My father wanted to push forward the wedding to before the meeting tomorrow, at least legally.”

Eomer’s eyes narrowed, but he held his tongue, and looked at Lothiriel’s face and finding it blank and forming that courtly mask that she slid on so easily, her eyes darting up at him for a moment.

“I refused, and I think they are trying to come to some agreement,” Boromir went on.

“Is there anything I can do?” Aragorn asked.

“Not as of yet,” Lothiriel said, “though I should warn you that my uncle is not entirely pleased by your coming.”

“I do not doubt it,” Aragorn chuckled, “Lord Denethor has made his feelings quite plain.”

Lothiriel looked around the hall, “Boromir, would you get me some wine, I need a moment.”

Boromir bowed and moved quickly away without question.

“The ledgers of the treasury are wrong,” she said in a low voice as soon as he was out of hearing, “At least they do not make sense from what I remember.”

“Wars are costed dearly, and not only in lives,” Aragorn said carefully. He had wondered why she had sent her cousin away but decided that she must have wanted to offer him deniability if Lord Denethor asked what they were discussing.

“I will grant you that, but,” she kept her voice low, but spoke quickly, looked between Aragorn and Eomer, “Something about it has not sat right with me. I could not put my finger on it, but when I saw the ledgers the other day, they were just…” she shook her head a little. “And, I do not know if you are aware, but my uncle has been using the citadel’s Palantir.”

“There have been rumors,” Aragorn said carefully, “but Lord Denethor assures us that he only kept it as he did so that it could not be used.”

Her brow furrowed a moment before she remembered herself and composed her face, “He has, and I should have said sooner. I am sorry…”

Boromir returned, passing Lothiriel a goblet and looked between the members in the group, “I should have asked if it was safe for me to return.”

Lothiriel rolled her eyes, her gaze locking with Eomer’s for a moment as if begging his pardon for her cousin.

“Boromir, has your father used the Seeing Stone?” Aragorn asked, directly.

“All the time,” Boromir said, easily, “I would guess that is in part the cause of most of his current… being.” He looked between them again as if uncertain why everyone looked so terribly grim about it. He knew why, but still. Sometimes it was easier to let people think he had no concept of things that to have to shoulder the reality of things. It was an old habit and one he really should have broken years ago. Over Lothiriel’s head, he saw Prince Imrahil enter the hall, Lord Denethor close at his heels. He pressed her shoulder again, whispering a quick comfort and warning to her and the shift in her spine made Boromir want to punch someone.

Eomer watched them both and felt suddenly useless and so full of rage. Not for the first time, he considered abducting Lothiriel, though abduction would be the wrong word since he was certain if he told her that he wanted to take her away she would have Firefoot tacked up before he could manage it. He wanted to touch her in some way that might reassure her, or even just have the words that would tell her that he was still with her.

She looked at him again for a moment and did her best to put on a brave face for a moment before her features resumed that placid and bored look that seemed the norm in this court.

The Steward of Gondor and the Prince of Dol Amroth bowed to the pair of Kings, and Eomer felt his gaze slide back to Lothiriel for the moment that neither of the patriarchs of her family were looking. There was an empty look in her eyes that wrenched his heart.

“I am terribly sorry for our tardiness,” Denethor said with a smile, “There were some family matters that required attention.”

“Nothing too serious, I hope,” Eomer said, managing to sound concerned as he looked Lord Denethor in the eye, almost challenging him.

“Nothing to trouble Your Majesties with,” Lord Denethor’s smile was almost soothing, and his dismissal sounded so genuine.

There must have been some way to speak to Lothiriel away from others, and Eomer tried to work out what it was until her father made some gentle excuse, some introduction he wanted to make, and guided Lothiriel away by her arm.

He watched her carefully, doing his best to listen to the pleasantries passing between the other men, but his mind seemed unwilling to focus for more than a few moments at a time. There was a rippling heat in the pit of his belly that he tried to ignore, some anxiety that would not stop pressing at him, no matter how hard he tried.

0x0x0

“The best I could offer was that you would be married in a year, and if not, if Lord Denethor’s certainty that no one would have you proved true,” Imrahil said, through a smile of gritted teeth, “then you would submit to his choosing.”

Lothiriel looked down again, considering how easy that net had loosed. It was too simple a thing for her uncle to accept. There had to be something they were missing. “Did he state any conditions?”

“Not outright,” Imrahil said slowly. “But he would not return you to my custody.”

She hid her face in her cup. She was a woman of noble birth, and not her own, nor could she be left to her own keeping. Her aunt was technically in the custody of Imrahil, but no one bothered to tell her what to do. A woman was to be in the custody of her family the same as a child until she married, and then she would be in the keeping of her husband. The agreement was a farce then, if Lord Denethor could refuse any suit.

Her father had been scanning over the hall, but he turned his gaze back on her quickly.

“Father?” she asked, looking back up at him, her face perfectly composed.

“Your betrothal was never publicly announced. There are some that know of it, but there was never a statement as far as I have been able to find, you know this?”

“I had gathered.”

“Then, and I am aware this is putting the cart well and truly before the horse,” Imrahil began, “when the war is over, we will have to start accepting suitors.”

She had not thought of that in any truth, and the realization made her take the rest of the wine in her cup down in one painful gulp. Her dowery was substantial, she was from a good family, and she was of an age that meant she had not truly been able to be courted in years. Every man that had taken any interest in her or her money that was still unmarried or still alive would be tripping over each other.

Her father made a face that cried, “well, we are certainly damned,” and refilled her cup and then his own.

The clicking sound of fingers snapping together made her freeze, and close her eyes for a moment, “I beg your pardon, Father.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: references to past attempted sexual assault

Eomer watched as she spoke with her father from where he stood with Boromir, who finally having sobered was able to relay the whole of the last two days to him and who seemed concerned that Eomer would not take any of this news well. They had split from Aragorn and Lord Denethor, but that did not mean Eomer had stopped paying attention to the Steward. He wanted to see him interact with Lothiriel in some way, that he might understand her fear, and her loyalty, such as it had been.

“Your father seems composed for one that was just in an argument,” Eomer said after a moment’s lull in Boromir’s recounting, not liking the calm way that Lord Denethor excused himself from Aragorn and made his way casually through the hall.

“Do not doubt his fury,” Boromir cautioned, watching his father’s progress through the hall, speaking to people, smiling and laughing. There was some plan in his father’s mind and he knew that they would have to wait and watch, “I can make no guess as to what he will do or what deal has been struck, but he will not bear any change to his plans without a fight.”

Eomer took another drink of wine, wondering when they were going to eat. He was hungry and all this talking and socializing was making him uneasy.

The snap echoed in the hall and Boromir had to check himself, his first instinct being to throw himself at Eomer and tackle him to avoid a scene. In truth it would have succeeded, though not in the way he would have liked. His hand caught Eomer’s arm to restrain him, knowing that Eomer’s nature was not one of quietly accepting indignation, and Boromir scanned the hall for where his father was, and his hand tightened further on Eomer’s arm. Where was Erchirion?

“What?” Eomer asked, looking at the tight hold on his arm.

Lothiriel set her wine down and seemed resigned to something as she crossed the hall to her uncle’s side, her hands folded delicately in front of her, her shoulders rolled back, opening herself to attack and ready for it.

He could almost feel the fire of rage start in Eomer, in the sudden rigidity of the arm that he clasped as the young king started forward.

“No,” Boromir yanked Eomer back, still not looking at him, his jaw tight, “you may not interfere.”

“I teased her that she made it sound as if she was your father’s pet, but does he truly call her the way one might call a well-trained dog?” Eomer hissed, leaning closer to Boromir, his eyes flashing.

Denethor moved just enough that Boromir could finally see who it was he was speaking to, and Boromir’s blood went cold at the sight of the smug face.

“Damn,” Boromir began to release Eomer’s arm, with a careful, warning look. He felt suddenly as if he was taking a child to put them in the corner until their tantrum was contained, “Come with me, I have another’s temper to curtail.”

Eomer followed, his fists clenched at his side, still watching Lothiriel as she offered her hand to the lord that Lord Denethor seemed to be introducing her to, the mask her features made drove him deeper into his rage. Lord Denethor had his hand on her shoulder, and then at the back of her neck as if keeping her in place, a couple of fingers twisting over the column of her neck.

“Erchirion,” Boromir said in a warning tone, stepping directly in front of one of Lothiriel’s brothers.

The middle son glared at Boromir for a long moment before taking a drink and turning a forced smile to Eomer and looked back to Boromir, “Would you pardon me? I need to take the air, or I might well tear that blackguard’s arms from their sockets and beat your father to death with them.” He picked up a pitcher of wine, and set his goblet down, and began to leave for the terrace.

Taking a breath, Boromir tried to find the words to placate his cousin’s rage but wasn’t able to think of anything that would manage the task rather than leading to further fury. He watched Erchirion as he picked up a pitcher of wine, and set his goblet down, and began to leave for the terrace.

“Some air sounds like an excellent idea,” Boromir said, his voice light, “Your Majesty, would you join us?”

It wasn’t a question, and Eomer followed Erchirion in seething silence, glancing back a moment. The man was holding Lothiriel’s hand and kissing it, and holding it still, resting his own over it. He began to turn from the agreed path, but Boromir blocked him.

“No, no, that way,” Boromir said gently, and nudged him further from Lothiriel, Denethor and the lord that Boromir would gladly help kill but he knew that it would only make more trouble for them all. The more pressing matter was keeping the two hotheads from doing anything unseemly. In Eomer’s case, if he gave into his temperament, and his nature, it would be seen as a confirmation to the Gondorian Nobility that their neighbors to the north were unfit for civilized society, and in Erchirion’s case, well, it was more that Boromir did not want the headache of their entire family browbeating him over his behavior.

“Your Majesty will remember Erchirion,” Boromir said as if making the most casual of introductions between friends.

“Family disappointment at your service,” Erchirion said, nodding half-heartedly to the visiting king.

“Are they… known to each other?” Eomer asked, and Boromir could see him taking a few deep breaths, trying to get a handle on his natural impulses, and perhaps on his jealousy.

It was almost sweet, watching Eomer King pine, even if pining in this case seemed more comprised of barely contained rage. Boromir wondered if Eomer would just stand behind Lothiriel, if he was allowed, and follow her wherever she was bid to go and glare at any other man that thought to speak to her, casting a silent threat of a violent death without a word and with narrowed eyes.

Erchirion let out a derisive snort at Eomer’s question and lifted the pitcher to his lips to drink.

“Are you going to have one of those evenings?” Boromir asked, sympathetically.

“Well, I cannot fight Lord Peldirion if I cannot feel my arms,” Erchirion retorted, his tone sharp and echoing in the empty space in the pitcher before he took another drink, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, “Cousin, you had best check your father, because I swear, if he thinks to make a match with him-”

“I will handle it, if it comes to that, thought I doubt it will, and if it does, then Lothiriel will find a way to kill him before you get the chance,” Boromir assured him, “We have it in hand.”

Erchirion glanced at Eomer a moment before slipping into Sindarin, his tone heavy and almost threatening, leaving his chest heaving with barely contained spite.

How much Sindarin did Eomer speak, if any? It was likely not the best time to wonder about such a thing, but Boromir did still. His uncle and his mother had been fluent at their mother’s instruction, and he wondered if they had taught Eomer and Eowyn any. Theodred had been conversational, even if his accent had never been very good… Boromir clenched his jaw a little, reminding himself of his purpose.

“Peldirion… who is he to Lothiriel, then?” Eomer asked Boromir pointedly, trying to break off a fight before it started, and if Boromir had to guess wanting some assurance that there was no cause for concern, that Denethor was only acting out of the habit of political matchmaking.

There was something almost frightened in his eyes as he looked back at Lothiriel again, and it made Boromir want to throw an arm over the younger man’s shoulders and assure him that there was no danger of his lady being taken from him. He had never seen Lothiriel so taken with anyone, not that there had been many opportunities for it.

“He is no one,” Boromir said quickly, holding a hand up to each of them, and trying to keep the peace to the best of his ability, hoping to avoid Eomer’s fury. before going into the details that any of the matchmakers might want to hear or confirm, “His father just died and left him with a good bit of land and a great deal of money, so it is likely for that reason alone that may lord father brought her to speak to him.”

“He is also in possession of a greedy nature, and a taste for violence as far as his female company is concerned,” Erchirion said, “or does the character of a man not matter so much as his fine house?”

“Keep your voice down,” Boromir warned, “We do not need any trouble just now.” He was going to have to have a conversation with Erchirion about what he should and should not tell their new friend.

“Neither does my sister,” Erchirion stepped close to Boromir, almost jostling a surprised Eomer out of the way to glower at Boromir, “so what do you plan to do about that, huh?”

Taking a breath, Boromir smirked and held out three fingers, and then slowly counted down, not looking back, “Does Elphir have her?” It was the way they always handled such things; a quick excuse and a retreat.

Eomer looked back again. The eldest son of Imrahil was guiding Lothiriel away gently, and she had her hand pressed over her chest, looking as if she had just seen a ghost. “He does.”

“Then that solves that for now, and Uncle Imrahil and I will find a more permanent solution,” Boromir said, trying his best not to use the voice he did when speaking to children.

“Did those violent tastes, as you call them…” Eomer hesitated, “Did he hurt Lothiriel in some way?”

Erchirion looked at him suddenly, “You speak of my sister rather casually, Your Majesty. You might do well to stop, Your Majesty.”

“Or what?” Eomer asked, squaring his shoulders, ready for a fight, and more than willing to be hit.

Boromir hesitated, but stood by ready to stop a potential fight that would not be a fight, he was certain. He wondered which of the men he’d be able to pick at the primary to be removed or restrained.

“Or my uncle will make your life difficult,” Erchirion said, smirking and looking over Eomer as if sizing him up, “Do not worry yourself on my account. Boromir has told me the great secret, and from what little I know of you, I have no quarrel with you, sir.”

Eomer stared back at him a moment before directing his attention back to Boromir, “Have you told anyone else?”

“Only Imrahil,” Boromir swore, “and that is only because he asked out right, and I could not deceive my lord uncle.”

“Good, I would rather not have Lord Denethor know yet,” Eomer said, trying to convince himself that there was nothing to be concerned about.

Both Boromir and Erchirion burst into laughter, and then looked between each other to decide who would tell him.

“Does he know already?” Eomer’s brow dropped.

“Denethor is astute in reading a man,” Erchirion smirked, his voice sounding almost like a child trying to scare another with a story of a ghost in their house, “Also he is rather out of his mind with paranoia at present, so… there is that…” He drank from his pitcher again.

Eomer studied Lord Peldirion, the way he looked at Lothiriel across the hall and smirked before he turned back to his companions inspired a deep dislike with little basis but the certainty that he was looking at a snake.

Before Boromir could speak, Erchirion spoke, narrowing his eyes, “He tried to, and she broke his nose.”

Boromir grimaced, rubbing his jaw nervously.

Eomer opened his mouth to ask further but could not manage to find the right words to ask what he meant. If he asked, then he would have to know, and if he had to know, and then sit to eat in the same room as someone that he was certain he would gladly beat to death, then he might not be quite able to contain his temper.

“To your earlier question. He tried to get her to elope five or six years ago, when Lothiriel was first presented. In failing that, he tried to force her into a marriage in a different way. He did not get terribly far in his endeavors, by grace.”

Boromir moved quickly and grasped Eomer’s arm again, shooting a look at Erchirion that screamed, “Why are you doing this to me!? Have I wronged you in some way?”

Eomer struggled for a moment against Boromir’s grip on his arm before taking a breath, trying to calm himself as far as he was able. “Did she strike him? Is that the reason his devices were unsuccessful, or did someone come to her aid?”

“No,” Erchirion sounded proud of his sister, “She gave him her knee him then kicked him in the face when he hit the floor. I came upon them after she had kicked him. I wish I hadn’t for she might well have ended him, but I will admit I had never been more proud of her.”

Eomer leaned closer to Boromir, "Please assure me that you will be able to influence your father's plans."

Boromir took a breath, softening his hold on Eomer’s arm and giving it a pat, “I told you, I have it in hand.”

“For what little that was worth,” Eomer said, stepping back and taking the pitcher from Erchirion and taking a long drink, watching the Steward call Lothiriel back to his side again in the same manner that he had already done.

“Easy,” Boromir warned, “Wine is stronger than you think, and it’s intoxication will sneak upon you.”

Eomer stared at Boromir, his face blank for a long moment before taking another drink.

It was hard enough for Eomer that he had to stand on the outside of the social circle and that he had to stand and watch Lothiriel be walked about and paraded like a prize horse and watch men look her over to determine if she was suitable for marriage, but that a man who would attack a young girl was still in this court was so contrary to his sense of morality that he felt a sudden need to leave or else burn the entire city to the ground.

Eomer handed Erchirion back the pitcher and took another long look at Lothiriel, “Make my excuses, I…” He didn’t want to admit that he felt out of place, the same way a country farmer might feel in Meduseld. He felt inferior, and he hated feeling so.

There was nothing he could do that would be good enough for these people, and he knew it at a glance. They would be polite and courteous but look down their noses at him the same way his grandmother did whenever they met, sparce as those times blessedly were. He had no understanding of the manners in this country, and though he thought his own manners sufficient, he had already suffered some level of anxiety at being seen as a brutish interloper. He had pretended not to notice a few of the lords, taking their daughters by the arm and moving them from his presence or that of his countrymen.

Erchirion clasped his shoulder, leaning on him a little, “May I offer an alternative to flight?”

Eomer’s eyes narrowed a fraction, “What would you suggest?”

“We could do a murder,” Erchirion’s grin was frightening in its gleaming rage.

“That is… while not…” Eomer flustered, knowing that they could not possibly kill Lord Peldirion, but could not think of a reason not to, “I do not hate the idea as much as I ought to.”

“No, we are not doing that,” Boromir said, hastily, perhaps they simply hungry, and if they would just feed these men already their rage might calm in some measure to a point where Boromir would at least be able to manage it without having to throw the pair of them into a sack, “We are going to take a few deep breaths, and we are going to press through the evening and regroup and strike at a later time.”

“You were not invited into the plot,” Erchirion laughed.

Boromir took the pitcher from his cousin, frowning, “How on earth am I meant to wrangle the pair of you? What I would not give for Lady Eowyn to be here, she would be a help…” he grumbled.

The beginning of an idea was starting to form in Eomer’s head, Boromir could see it, and he was certain that Eowyn would certainly be willing to be helpful. He had visited with his brother in the Halls of Healing and had fought the urge of smugness when he saw the way his brother looked at Lady Eowyn at her window.

Eomer’s eyes found Lothiriel again, ensconced by her two other brothers, and their gaze met again, and he knew he could not leave her. Even if he had to keep his distance, he wanted to stay where he could see her. Lothiriel gave him a slow smile, and she looked almost relieved to see him still present, and Eomer seemed to soften a little, as if assured that he was still in her affections at all. There was an almost imperceptible sadness in that look as if Eomer felt completely useless and unable to protect the woman he loved.

Boromir wondered if they had said that they loved each other yet, or if they knew. Danger always made people rush through the early days of affection, in his experience, and he knew that Lothiriel was a sensible girl. He would be willing to put money down that Eomer would make the confession first, and it would happen before he returned to Edoras for his uncle’s funeral.

The look that Eomer gave him was strange, and he looked like a man begging to be saved from drowning, and Boromir smiled back, patting his arm again, ensuring him without a word that it would be alright in the end.

0x0x0

The evening simply would not end, no matter how much Lothiriel wished it would. She sat with a few of the ladies that she knew in some small passing way, not at the high table with the men of her family and of Aragorn’s company. She had not realized that she was still so tired, and she wanted to leave, but that would cause gossip, and they could not have that.

There was nothing that could be done but to smile and speak in the low tones that were appropriate for a lady and bide her time. Every time someone looked at her, she was convinced that she could feel it, but she kept her gaze on the women around her and on her food, and revealed nothing, least of all her indignation at the questions that the ladies asked about her travels. At some point, it would no longer be fresh news, and at some point, people would stop asking her to confirm their biases, and their assumptions. There had already been a few knowing looks at her defenses of the Eorlingas, as if she had lost her mind, and was young, stupid and that someone ought to tell her family.

She was going to be demure and reserved, and she chanted that promise over and over in her mind until she thought she might actually lose her grasp on reality. There had to be something here that she had loved once, besides the need to be better than every other person in the room, and besides the hateful gossiping.

The lady that was garnering a few sighing chuckles at a catty remark had started a rumor a little over a year ago that Lord Denethor was so attentive of Princess Lothiriel because either he meant to marry her, or else she was secretly his child. Lothiriel had replied months later by inferring to a notorious old gossip that it was strange that that lady’s newborn son was born seven months after her husband had returned to the city from their estate in the country where she had not lived. It wasn’t entirely true, but that hardly mattered.

The entirety of her life here had been a cycle of troublemaking and back talk. She could hardly pick out a single person that was not a member of her family who she could trust and say was her friend.

By the time dinner had ended, she realized she had not eaten enough and that she might be on her way to being drunk. She snatched a thick piece of bread at the last moment and quickly ate it, looking up at one of the ladies who stared at her stuffed face as if it was the most supreme horror that had ever occurred in this court.

She had to plan, and counter plan to get out of her marriage, or any other that Denethor would think to plan for her.

From the corner of her eye, she watched Eomer make his excuses and start for the door, his gaze lingering apologetically on her for a moment.

Lothiriel let out a small cough behind her hand, drawing Erchirion’s attention and she shot him a look, trying not to smile at the slight incline of his head as he cornered their uncle.

No one else was paying her much attention, at least not obviously, so she made her way casually from the hall, fanning herself with her hand as if she was overheated and fatigued, holding her breath a little to make her face appear flushed, hopefully making her act almost believable.

Once she was in the corridor, she scanned the space carefully, and hurried after Eomer, her skirt hitched a little in her hand.

He rounded at the sound of her footfalls, his face lighting a little.

“I am so terribly sorry,” she said when she was close enough, her hand clasping his fiercely.

He was not certain what it was that she apologized for, and said, “You should have stayed in Edoras.”

“I know,” she looked over her shoulder and pulled him into an arched alcove, “but I had to know…”

Eomer peered back into the corridor, feeling like a thief, and in a way he was one. Looking back at her, he felt that stab of jealousy that he had not been able to have more of her time and her attention.

“I owe you a kiss,” she whispered teasingly. Her hand reached up to cup his cheek and pull him down to her to kiss him for a moment, relaxing as his arms wrapped around her so gently. He stooped a little, and lowered his face to hers, kissing her lips with care.

He started back, looking down at her, his hands pressing at her ribs gently, “What are you wearing?” He had spent a few moments trying to decide what looked so wrong about her. He had decided that it was simply the difference of dress, but he felt some strange binding under her dress.

“My stays,” she laughed, blushing a little.

“They cannot be comfortable,” he muttered, rubbing his hand over the back of her dress, trying to feel for any shifting in the undergarment.

“They are not so terrible as you might think, but I will admit that I do not enjoy running in them,” she replied, leaning forward to rest her head against his chest for a moment.

He had so many questions and so many things he wanted to say to her, and to tell her, but he held every started word in and wrapped his arms more firmly around her.

She looked up at him, “My father has made a deal with my uncle,” she said quietly, “I have a year to get myself married in an agreeable fashion, or else I let Lord Denethor make the arrangements for me.”

"Then there is no problem."

“Save the fact that he still holds the power to deny any match I might try to make for myself.”

“I hate that…” Eomer stopped himself from finishing the sentiment, trying to check himself from rage again, “Do you want to marry me?”

“In truth,” she said, “I might, but I am hesitant to give an affirmation that I may later regret.”

“I am not asking you to marry me tomorrow,” he smiled, and it warmed her through, “I would rather you choose someone else and keep the life to which you are used rather than deciding too rashly, and hate me for moving you from everything you have ever known.”

“Even if that would mean your exclusion from the decision?” she asked, confused.

“I want only for your happiness, Lothiriel,” he stroked her cheek.

She wondered what he would do if she did choose someone else, if she would break his heart and if he would manage to find love elsewhere and marry or if it would be all melodramatics like in the poems she had read.

“I suppose I should be more specific,” he smiled, “I want for your happiness, and I want to kill Lord Peldirion in a slow and painful way.”

Lothiriel’s face reflected how startled his words made her. She looked down for a moment, “I would rather run away and be kept as your mistress than marry him, so there is no need for jealousy.” She picked at her cuticles anxiously. What could Eomer possibly want with her, knowing what a damaged mess of a person she was.

He should not have felt pride at her words, knowing that there was little chance they would be able to carry off such a scheme, not that he would keep her in such a position, “There is little control over such a feeling,” he tilted her chin up to make her look at him, debating if he should tell her what Erchirion had said. He kissed her brow and her cheeks in quick succession wanting to smooth the worry from her face. “They will be missing you, my dear.”

She sighed, “I do not want to go back.”

“Nor do I wish it,” he admitted, “but then I do not know more than a handful of people here, and I am not always at ease in the company of so many strangers.”

“Is my lord shy?” she asked, grinning, “Is that the reason for your scowling disposition? Is it a ploy to ward off introductions?”

“Hush,” he smiled, moving that arrant curl on her brow, “I cannot have the world knowing all of my secrets.”

She pushed closer to him again, “I promise to keep those secrets safe for you, my lord, and I may well give you more of them.”

He captured her lips again, wanting to make up for the days they had been parted, and knowing there was not enough time. Withdrawing, and holding her face in his hands, he smiled at her beaming face.

She was almost glowing, and he wondered if anyone had ever been as lovely as she looked. She took one of his hands and kissed his knuckle before pressing his hand back to her cheek.

0x0x0

Every instinct in Boromir’s being told him to announce himself, but he could not make himself do so, and he leaned back against the wall near the place where they hid. He would alert them if someone else was coming, if they were in danger of being discovered, even as he knew it would hardly matter, and it would be too late if someone did walk in their direction.

Seeing them smiling and whispering, he could not bear to separate them. Lothiriel and Eomer deserved a few moments at the very least.

Perhaps a small moment of stolen happiness would be enough to stop whatever murderous schemes he was certain Eomer must be trying to work out. Boromir was not entirely willing to bet there wouldn’t be a pile of dead bodies hidden behind a curtain somewhere before the end of it, not that at least one of them was not called for. He would have to have a conversation with Erchirion about what Eomer should be told and what should be left to Lothiriel to tell him in her own time.

Her brothers all loved her, but to varying degrees of loving her for herself and because she was their sister and they would hate themselves if they did not. Elphir was protective in a distant way, and she and Amrothos were too alike in their personalities for them not to pick at each other. Erchirion had always tried to look after her and had taken any spiteful mean-spirited thing she had ever said to him with a laugh, even when it only served to make Lothiriel mock him further.

He peered at them carefully waiting for a moment when he might draw Lothiriel away but knew that the rest of this evening would likely be unpleasant. He would not leave her side and would do anything in his power to protect her, having failed to do so for so long.

When Eomer stepped from the alcove, and looked about the corridor, his eyes widened on Boromir for a moment, who only answered with a smile, and a bowed head. Lothiriel’s reaction to him would have been more damning if anyone else witnessed it, only the quick and embarrassed blush that came on after being caught at some mischief.

“My lord father was concerned by your absence, cousin,” Boromir said, trying not to make that sound like the threat his father had meant by it, “I told him that you were likely overwhelmed by company, and that I would fetch you and ensure that you would return.”

She deflated a small, almost immeasurable amount, just the shift of her shoulders for a moment before she checked herself. Eomer took her hand, squeezing it just a little as he looked at her, concerned, and she shook her head, “I will be alright.”

“I will stay with her,” Boromir assured King Eomer, but the words did little to unfurl the tightness in his brow as Lothiriel pulled away from him and started the slow walk back into the hall.

0x0x0

As he had promised, Boromir did not leave her side, even to the point of annoyance.

Lord Orodir, with whom she had been friendly enough for years had begun to approach her, likely to make the general polite small talk that would be expected, and Boromir looked him in his approaching face and hissed like a cat at him. Orodir’s face shifted to confused horror and he backed away.

“Was that necessary?” Lothiriel asked, trying not to laugh.

“I am going to give you what little peace you might be allowed to have until the point at which you would be able to withdraw to your rooms,” Boromir said, his eyes narrowing at a cluster of men looking at her.

“You know, I have managed to survive this society for years without a governess, and I do not think that I need one at present.”

“Well, you should keep an eye on your king. I think he is plotting to have his sister kill Lord Peldirion,” Boromir said casually.

“I do not doubt it, but should I ask why he should think to do such a thing?” Lothiriel asked, feeling cold suddenly, looking around the room for a moment.

“Because Erchirion is having one of his difficult nights.”

“How difficult?” she asked, taking a drink.

“He was drinking directly out of a pitcher,” Boromir said.

Some wine came out of her nose when she laughed, and now her sinuses were burning, “No.”

“Your father sent him to bed before he did something embarrassing.”

“That is likely for the best, and I might take that wisdom for myself,” Lothiriel said, smiling a little, and wondering how much her brother had said. “I am tired,” she said after a moment of quiet, and started to go excuse herself, her cousin still following after her.

Perhaps there had been some agreement between Boromir and her brothers that one of them would follow her at all times. She had no basis for this thought, but it seemed like the sort of thing Boromir would try to arrange.

0x0x0

In the afternoon, Lothiriel sat in front of her uncle’s desk, prim and upright. She contained an indulgent smile at Boromir hovering behind her seat with the attitude of a parent that had their child called to the headmistress’ office, his arms folded over his chest.

“Your father and I have decided that you will go to Dol Amroth for a visit,” Denethor said carefully, keeping his gaze on Lothiriel, feeling entirely certain that if he looked at his son that he would either laugh or scream.

“For how long?” Lothiriel asked, cool and composed, raising a brow.

“Hopefully only for a week or so,” Denethor went on, debating how much he should tell her, “The Armies of the West are going to march on Mordor, and if all goes well, this will end The Enemy and the war. If this goes well, then your brothers and Boromir will collect you and your Lady Aunt Ivriniel and bring you back.”

“Am I to ride alone?”

“No Elphir will be leaving tomorrow morning to ensure the defenses of the bay, but in truth there is little chance of any attack,” Denethor leaned forward, looking at her over the desk, his hands folding, “Your father and I have decided that that is the safest place for you at present.”

Lothiriel nodded, smiling politely, “As you and my Lord Father bid, I shall do.”

She must have embarrassed Denethor in some way, or else he was afraid that she would embarrass him if he had agreed to this. In Dol Amroth, she would be out of the way, and no one would be any wiser to any fit of madness that might take her.

“Do you know why we might think to send you south?” Denethor asked, his tone patronizing as he folded his shaking hands and leaned forward a little more to study her.

“You have said it was out of concern for my safety, and I certainly could think of no other reason, nor would I think to question your concern.”

“No?” Denethor’s smirk was hard, “I should think by now you would have trusted me to tell me of your memory loss.”

“I have by and large recovered, and so I thought it was not worth mentioning,” Lothiriel did her best to keep her face sweet and innocent.

“You can think of no action that you might have committed in your time abroad that would reflect poorly on your family?”

She could think of several, but she was not going to validate whatever he suspected her of doing until she knew what it was, “No, my Lord Uncle.”

“There is a rumor going around the Rohirrim that you attacked a man, that you had been arrested, and having bitten him hard enough to break the skin, you then smeared your face with his blood, bared your breasts and ran through the city of Edoras like a heathen Warlord, bearing his head aloft.”

It was so absurd that she actually burst into laughter, “My dear uncle, there is hardly any truth in that.” Perhaps she should have a statue of herself made in such a fearsome likeness, but she was not certain where she would put such a thing. 

“Hardly?”

Her hands unfolded and refolded themselves, “Grima Wormtongue had me thrown in a dungeon for attempted murder of Theodred Prince, and we both know I was innocent of the charge. When Saruman’s spell was lifted from Theoden King, I was released.”

“And what was the cause for believing the rest of that rumor?”

She bobbed a shoulder, “Who can say? Soldier’s gossip is like the tales of children, building in creativity and intricacy with each retelling of a tale.”

Denethor nodded slowly, looking between Lothiriel and Boromir. Lothiriel had usually been good at hiding her thoughts and feelings, and he almost believed her that there was nothing more to the story. But Boromir had never been terribly good at managing the expressions of his face, and that quick twitch in his brow made Denethor smirk.

“A few of the Rohirric leadership seem quite impressed with you,” Denethor said, “and I wonder how you managed to inspire such admiration in such a stony people with so little time.”

“By being kind and polite, I suppose. You raised me not to start trouble unless I needed to, and it did not seem advisable to be anything but pleasant," she could sense the beginning of an accusation in his words, straightening her back in preparation for a lecture.

“Is that all?”

She smiled back at him, “Uncle, I cannot imagine what it is that you mean to say, so perhaps you might simply tell me what it is that you suspect me of doing so that I can assure you that it is unfounded.”

The Steward rose and crossed to look out the east facing window into the Pelennor fields where they spread out. The dark cloud that hung ever present over Mordor seemed almost like a faint smudge in the sky. His gaze traveled back down to the fields outside of the city where the Rohirrim had set their camp, awaiting orders from their king. He studied their standards and tents, almost able to make out the shape of men but for the distance from his office to the ground below.

If he snatched either of the people in his office and pushed them just so at the open window, there would be nothing to hold on to, nothing to stop them falling. If he leaned just wrong, and the wind was strong enough, he would tumble through the air until he didn’t. The invasive thoughts had been coming on more frequently and he wondered what they meant, if anything. He wished they would stop, but then he also wished that everyone would stop lying to him.

Slowly, he crossed back around his desk to stoop in front of Lothiriel, who’s eyes had never left him in the few long minutes that he had taken to focus his thoughts in to one single question. Her face was calm and inquiring, but there was a fire behind her eyes, and a calculation in them that she could not quite hide from him. It was such a waste that her mind had been born into the feeble body of a woman.

Would that he had been able to name her as heir to the Stewardship and be able to be of more use than confirming gossip. She might, if she had been born a princeling been able to do the one thing that he had asked of her that would have meant getting her own, soft hands dirty. The poisoning had been the one test she hadn’t been able to pass, his dear, sweet girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the next few chapters will be a little fluffier, guys. I should have the next one up soon!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly just banter and some fluff because, I mean, shit's been dark, and my brain needs a nice reset for a little bit.
> 
> I've also changed the rating and added some more tags because... well writing is weird.
> 
> As always, enjoy!

It was not the sort of thought that a son should ever have about his father, but Boromir knew that they would need to do something about Denethor at some point, but he wasn’t sure the best course of action. There was something dangerous about the way that he had looked over Lothiriel before excusing her to go pack her things, something that made Boromir’s stomach knot. The trouble was he couldn’t think of what to do to put such a thing in place, and the only person he could think to ask was still in the Houses of Healing recovering from injuries.

Well, damn it all, he thought to himself, Faramir must be bored of bedrest by now.

Boromir left the citadel and made his way down the city to the large stone infirmary and kept his pace as evenly as he could manage it.

He found his brother in the courtyard, his nose as ever stuck in a book, smiling and reading to Lady Eowyn. The pair of them looked like one of those pretty tapestries inspired by romantic text that their grandmother had collected, and Boromir hesitated before approaching them. Why was life so full of interruption? Was that the way of everyone’s lives, or was their family simply cursed?

Boromir took a deep breath before smiling, and trying to make his voice sound light and agreeable, “Brother, should you be straining your eyes?”

“It is the only thing the warden here will let me strain,” Faramir smiled, picking up a walking stick, and beginning to stand.

“Do not get up, I need to ask your council, and when I tell you want I need help with, you will want to sit anyhow,” he shot Eowyn an apologetic look, “though if I am a nuisance, you should but tell me and I will be off.”

Faramir said that he wasn’t a nuisance at the same time that Eowyn said he was, making them both smile at each other.

“What did Lothiriel do?” Lady Eowyn asked, “I could use a laugh, and I am certain whatever she had done would be worthy of laughter. I would have thought that she would visit, but I have not seen her.”

Boromir tried to smile, but it came out more a grimace.

Faramir did his best to smile in response to that look, shaking his head a little, “I doubt I want to know, but I ought to?”

“She has not done anything yet, but I fear she will if no one else does,” Boromir said quietly, remembering to ensure that no one was listening only after he had voiced the concern.

Faramir nodded, “Have they finally had a falling out? In truth I have been waiting months for things to sour between them.”

“How did things get so bad?” Boromir asked, sitting and folding his hands together to stop them fidgeting.

“There had been something simmering there for a while,” Faramir said, shrugging, “Honestly, I doubt either of them even noticed, but Lothiriel hasn’t been what you might call content for some time now. Just after you left…” he looked at Eowyn for a moment, “he asked her to do something, and she failed. He’s been steadily becoming more and more controlling since then.”

“What was it he asked?” Eowyn leaned forward, wishing she had a bowl of candied nuts to munch on as she drew the story out.

Faramir shifted his gaze to Eowyn a moment before looking back at Boromir, questioning whether or not it was appropriate to speak of whatever had happened in front of this lady, who he did not know as well as he wished he did.

“It was just a bit of unpleasantness with one of the other lords, who had not been in favor of some of our father’s plans, and he wanted her to handle it for him.”

Eowyn stared at him levelly for a moment, “What? Did he want her to kill him?”

Faramir’s only answer was to quick lift in his brow, giving assent without having to say it. He took a breath, thinking, “As to the matter of the present… I would advise you to ask the King to place her back with Imrahil. You know he’s wanted custody of her almost from the moment he sent her here.”

Boromir took a breath, “I think he has enough on his hands at present, but I will try to speak with him.”

“I have no idea what else we can do, unless something happens, and depending on what it is, would effect what we ought to do. Did you finally tell father that you were not going to marry Lothiriel?”

“I did.”

“How did that go over?” Eowyn asked, leaning forward again.

“I would not have taken you for a gossipmonger, Lady Eowyn,” Boromir smirked, “I am certainly surprised.”

“I am not!” she hissed, “But I have not been allowed to leave this place, and I want to know what is happening. It is indeed a shame that the only truth I might be given comes from you.”

“You wound me!” Boromir laughed.

Eowyn shook her golden head, “Between you and Eothain, I will rejoin the world I will know nothing but that your relationship with your father is complicated, and that my brother is king now.” There were a few other things Eothain had said, but she did not feel the need to share that he and Gamling had a bet going between them on whether her brother would go mad or try to find some way around the prudish ways of the Gondorians.

“Oh, that reminds me!” Boromir said starting up, “If Eomer asks you to help him with a murder, I would greatly appreciate it if you did not take part.”

“You think I would take part in a murder?!” Eowyn demanded.

Boromir tilted his head, “Do you, the woman who snuck into the Army and killed the Witch King, and whose temper I have seen, want me to answer that?”

Faramir smiled, watching the source of his infatuation smack his brother’s arm and, waiting for the preciously fierce attack to stop before asking, “Do I want to ask why you would be concerned about a murderous plot?”

Boromir winced, “Because Erchirion had too much to drink and may have told Eomer something he didn’t want to hear.”

“As is often his way, but I doubt Erchirion is in much danger,” Faramir paused, “What did he say?”

“The only danger Erchirion is in, is the danger of being annoying. It seems he wants to be bosom companions with Eomer. No, our father is trying to set a match for Lothiriel that he might approve of, and he reintroduced her to Lord Peldirion.”

Faramir’s face fell, “He did not. Perhaps he does not know, Lothiriel would never have told him.” He doubted she ever would have told anyone. If she had, it would have been her word against the son of one of their father’s supporters, and no one would have taken her word over his. Faramir knew a few gossips that would have given their front teeth for such a story, the princess of Dol Amroth leaving the Great Hall with a man... he suppressed a shudder at the scenarios that went through his mind.

“Father knows everything,” Boromir said, his brow dropping, “even if she did not tell him, I am certain he knows.”

“What on earth is this scandal, then?” Eowyn asked, teasingly.

“You do not want to know, for you might want to help with a murder if you did,” Faramir said curtly. “Please tell me that Erchirion did not overshare.”

“Have you met our cousin? Have you met our cousin when he is drunk?” Boromir asked, shaking his head at the stupid request, “By the way, Lady Eowyn, did you know that your brother has a jealous streak?”

Eowyn’s impish face was made for the mischievous look that came over her features, “Oh, should I have warned you?”

“In truth, the solution to the problem that Lothiriel is facing that would be best is not one I will expect you to like,” Faramir said suddenly, the idea coming to him.

“I care little for the manner of solution, as long as it is in Lothiriel’s best interest,” Boromir said, stretching his arm against the soreness from Eowyn’s assault. On a second of reflection, he knew that if the solution was to have Lothiriel put in a convent, he would fight that.

“Get Lothiriel married and out of the city,” Faramir said as if it was as simple as it should have been.

“Well, I have certainly been endeavoring to do so.”

“I heard,” Faramir smiled, looking at Eowyn for a moment, “and considering your involvement, it seems to have gone better than I would have guessed.”

Boromir narrowed his eyes at Eowyn’s proud face for a moment, “If you would hear the tale only from this lady, you would think I had played the part of the fool, but I have been more helpful than that.”

“Have you been?” Eowyn asked, chuckling, “I must have been otherwise occupied at that time.”

Boromir laughed. He liked Lady Eowyn, and he thought that she likely didn’t hate him as much as her words made it seem that she did. “Alright, we have a year to get Lothiriel married before our father makes her a match, but you seem to forget that he has the right to forbid any arrangement that he does not see as beneficial, and considering his plans thus far, it seems as though he will turn down any match.”

“You are likely right in that,” Faramir said, thoughtfully, “and as such we would need to remove the obstacle that our father poses.”

“You could have him sent to a house for the mad, as it seems he is quite a danger,” Eowyn said, frowning a little. She did not like the idea of Lothiriel staying with a man that would control her so, but she was not a member of this family. She was not even a citizen of this country.

“We will not be able to do that,” Boromir said, “When he is of his right mind, he seems quite lucid.”

“Is Lothiriel going to Dol Amroth with Elphir?” Faramir asked, smirking.

“Yes.”

“And should this go well, she will return.”

“Yes,” Boromir smiled, “Brother, I request you bring forth the point.”

Faramir rubbed his brow, “If this war is won, the court will be reopened in full, and there will be feasting, and every noble in the country will want to be here.”

“And father will throw them at Lothiriel until she assents or else flees the city again. I have I swear, been trying to work out some device by which to lead father to letting Lothiriel make up her own mind.”

“I do not doubt you are doing your best, but you misunderstand me, brother. If the court is reopened, Auntie will come with Lothiriel back to Minas Tirith.”

Boromir’s grin was almost malicious, “She would indeed.”

“Put the task to her, and she will find a way around our father.”

“Or more likely, a way through him.”

Eowyn looked between them, wondering why on earth they looked so gleeful about leaving this matter to their aunt, once again determining that every man she met was stupid, but she was certain that she was going to like meeting this woman.

0x0x0

It was as silly as it had been the last time Eomer had gone to do this, he still felt an uncomfortable feeling that though he had been friendly enough with Prince Imrahil thus far, and he owed the Prince his life, Eomer was still not Gondorian. Prince Imrahil would not be entirely outside of his purview in telling Eomer to leave his daughter alone and focus on the more pressing matters at hand, or that he did not approve at all. When he had asked Boromir to court Lothiriel, he had at least the awareness that an assent was probable, and he wasn’t so certain that he would be allowed by her father to do so. At least he had a better chance than going to Lord Denethor directly. Denethor had not said anything directly that made Eomer think that he would disapprove, but he didn’t particularly want to speak to him if he could avoid it.

There had been something in the way Imrahil had looked at him before the debate began, and even a few times through the meeting that left Eomer with the sudden feeling that the Prince knew everything. Not that there was anything that Eomer had to be ashamed of, and it was that not he wanted a reward for not having done anything that would make his lady’s father dislike him. It was just that something in that look that put him on guard.

Still, as he approached Imrahil, an hour or so after the debate, he felt nervous. What would he do if he was rejected by his lady’s father, and was told to leave her be? He might try to ask Boromir to contrive some meeting, but he felt that if he asked Boromir to be subtle, there would be a releasing of white doves or some lengthy sonnet played by a particularly loud troupe of bards.

“Your Majesty,” Prince Imrahil bowed gracefully before he and Eomer clasped each other’s forearms, “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I had wondered if I might be allowed to see your daughter for a few moments,” Eomer said, doing his best to sound self-assured.

The small smile Imrahil gave him was likely meant as a gesture of friendliness, but there was still something in it that made Eomer nervous. Imrahil turned his face back to the window overlooking the garden and studied her slender shape of his daughter, watching the blue veil on her head shift a little as she read from a book, “I would at present have no objection. Though, I would ask that you be…” Imrahil was not entirely certain what he meant to ask, not entirely certain that he had any right to ask anything of a king, even if Lothiriel was his daughter. His legal rights were limited, but he still had an ethical right.

Eomer’s brow dropped a little before bowing his head, “Is there anything I might do to help, with whatever seems to be the trouble?”

There were too many things that needed to be arranged before the young king could be of any help, but it was a kind of him to offer, “No, Your Majesty, but I thank you.”

Eomer bowed, “I thank you, Your Highness,” and he was gone.

Perhaps they would be able to sort out the entirety of his family troubles before she returned to Minas Tirith, but he personally doubted it. He could only see in some small part what Denethor was working at, and what he had put into place so far. The fact that he had at all tried to call a negotiation at all, and that there had been an agreement seemed too easy a thing to have come by. There had to be something else in play. There had to be some device or plot to keep Lothiriel near him.

It was not something he should think to even consider, but Imrahil wondered if he would be so willing to allow his new friend to court his daughter if he did not do so out of a concern for her situation. As much as he liked King Eomer, he did not think that this man deserved his daughter.

Imrahil watched from the window as Eomer approached Lothiriel, hesitating a moment a few yards from her. Her face seemed to lighten a little, from what he could see from this distance, when she saw him, and stood. She didn’t curtsy at first but moved toward him a moment before stopping and clenching her hands before herself and remembering decorum.

Boromir had vouched for Eomer and had sworn that he had stood by as a form of supervision, but Imrahil was not entirely willing to believe that. He loved his nephew, but the man was given to romantic notions.

0x0x0

“Lothiriel?”

The sound of his voice sent a thrill through her and she leapt up from the bench she sat on and almost began to run to him before checking herself. She curtsied, smiling through her embarrassment, “Your Highness.”

“You once asked me not to call you by your honorific,” Eomer smiled, raising his head from the bow he gave her, “and I think I understand it now.”

“Do you?” she vaguely remembered that day at the Hornburg, that request said out of frustration. It was only a few weeks before, but it seemed like a lifetime ago now.

“It is a strange thing to be given deferral by someone that you wish would see you for who you are, and not for your title,” Eomer said, “and it has given me something to think on, more than I likely should.”

“What would that be?” she asked.

“Would you walk with me?” he asked, offering her his arm for a moment before remembering that he wasn’t allowed to do that, being too scandalous an action for an unmarried pair, and moved his arm as if to gesture about the garden.

“Yes,” she began walking, setting her book down on the bench, certain no one would take it as they started on the stone path that wound through the garden, “if you will tell me what has been occupying your thoughts so much that you feel the need to make a declaration.”

“What makes you think I mean to declare something?”

“You have that tone in your voice,” she smiled, looking down at the white stones.

“I have a tone?” he sounded overly perplexed.

She rolled her eyes at him, “Go on and tell me, I cannot live with the suspense of it!”

He stooped a little closer to her ear, “I suspect were quite infatuated with me before I was banished,” he murmured.

She jostled him lightly with her elbow, “Oh hush.”

“You do like me, then?” Eomer gasped pressing his hand over his heart, “the scandal, what will the ladies of the court say?”

She rolled her eyes, “You are an absolute terror, you know that?”

Eomer was smiling at her, and she wanted to push him, knowing he would catch her arms and laugh. “Am I?”

“As terrifying as a hedgehog, is what you are, all prickles on the outside, but soft underneath,” she said.

“You must never tell a soul, I have a reputation to uphold,” he smiled, looking at her, looking all the part of a fine southern lady but for the glint of mischief in her eye.

She smiled, studying him carefully, “I shouldn’t think you would care what people would think of you.”

His jaw shifted a little as he thought, “I try not to care what people think, and what they say about me, but it is a difficult thing to manage,” his dark eyes looked into her, “How do you manage it?”

“You think I do?” she stared at him, “Why, sweet foolish man, I am constantly concerned about the thoughts of others. Sometimes I feel certain that everyone secretly despises me, and they all are lying because I am useful. Most of the time it is true,” she looked at him before quickly adding, “or it used to be.”

The smile he gave her in reply to hers was halfhearted, he wondered if she thought that her uncle hated her, too, or if he might in some way, and if that was why she had been so loyal.

“I am leaving for Dol Amroth tomorrow,” she said, changing the conversation before she became too morbid.

“I know, Lord Elphir told me. At least you will be safe there,” Eomer said, looking over the windows of the citadel trying to map out which places might have the least chance of someone seeing them. “Your aunt, is she kind or stern?”

“She is stern, but not a bad woman, thought she is a bit of a spymaster,” Lothiriel smiled up at him, biting back on her reservations. There had been enough passive aggressive arguments between them. “I imagine she will endeavor to keep me out of trouble so far as she is able.”

“I do not know her, but I would think to encourage you to be as much trouble as you wished.”

“You might come to regret those words, Eomer,” her laugh was sweet, and he wanted to hear it again.

For a moment, he tried to think of something to say that would grant him that privilege, but his mind was blank beyond the way her eyes caught the midday light, and the way she didn’t hide her laughter behind her hand anymore when she was with him.

It suddenly struck him against his will that she might have confided more in him than her secretive nature likely would have deemed prudent. Every time she had told him something, she had averted her eyes and been certain that he would despise her, or perhaps call her words false. Had she not been able to trust anyone before? Likely not, if her uncle was the only protector she had ever known.

He was still trying to check the jealousy of having to stand by while other men looked her over and appraised her, Lord Denethor’s hand guiding her about as he tried to find her a match. He hated all of them, and that hatred burned in the pit of his stomach. He hated himself along with them, feeling useless. Things should have been easier, and she should have been allowed to have her own way on at least this one thing. Perhaps before they had met, she would have made a match that would not have compounded the troubles in her family.

“What?” she asked, her smile turning indulgent as she looked up at him.

“Nothing.”

“That grim look on your face says otherwise.”

“There is something I might ask you, but I know you will not like to hear it, and you will tell me I am bring a fool,” Eomer said slowly, trying to work out the best way to ask.

“Since you know what I will say, why does it worry you?” she pressed her arm against his for a moment.

“It seems as though most of your troubles with your uncle come from a disagreement on your future, and I seem to be the main focus of that disagreement, at least on your part.”

She stared at him, looking for a moment as if she would smack him over the head if she was allowed to, before composing herself “I do not want you to leave me,” she whispered, “unless you wished to.”

“That is not what I mean, and you know it.”

“Then why even say it?” she asked, “My life is better for your place in it, and I feel for the first time as if I might have something for myself, greedy as it is to say. Your affection is for me, not my title, or my wealth, and I do not want to forsake a hope of something that I had not thought to ever know, whatever anyone else might think.”

He didn’t know what to say but knew from the way she was looking at him that he would need to say something. Shaking his head, he looked away for a moment, “Wanting to be loved, or to want to love someone is not greedy. I do not wish to make your life more difficult than it already is.”

Lothiriel scoffed, “It will not always be so. Things may seem for a while, but then things improve. Why else bother fighting this war if that isn’t true?”

“Boredom mostly,” he replied, sounding blasé, “I mean, one must find something to so with the day. All those banquets and times of peace become rather dull after a while, and a man will seek out some adventure or other as a form of entertainment.”

“Obviously,” she said.

He tugged at the silk of her wide skirt playfully, “I hope you are right, and I hope we might have peace together.”

“You leave tomorrow as well,” it wasn’t a question.

“Yes. I did not want to risk leaving without seeing you,” Eomer twisted the fabric between his fingers, thoughtfully, “I doubt I might have the honor of another visit.”

“No,” she blushed, “I am too well watched here.”

“A pity, I rather like having you in my bed,” he murmured.

“I hope you have not said that to anyone,” she said, her eyes widening up at him.

“Why? Are you ashamed of me?” he asked, slowing a little behind a group of shrubbery and looking her over.

“No.”

“I should certainly hope not,” he smoothed his hand over her shoulder carefully, moving his fingers carefully from her dress to over her skin, and smiling to himself as he watched her skin prickle at his touch.

She sighed, turning her face away before he kissed, “Eomer, someone might see…”

He stared back at her, “Just one kiss, and then I promise to behave.”

“I would never call you a liar, my lord,” her disbelief was clear in her voice, and in the gentle tilt of her head.

“If anyone saw me touching you at all, I think we would be in just as much trouble,” he murmured, running the back of his fingers over the side of her neck, “so if I am going to be scolded, I might as well.”

She tugged him a little closer, “You know that is not in the least how that works.”

He murmured agreement before lowering his lips to hers and kissing her gently, the tips of his fingers curling a little against the back of her neck, feeling the gossamer fabric she wore draped over the back of her head as all the women here did, married or otherwise. He could smell the lilac oil she used on her hair. Pulling back from her lips, he planted another kiss on the top of her head, rubbing his hands over her arms, “I look forward to the day when we will not need to hide.”

“I think you like it,” she said, slipping from his grasp and starting along the path again.

“Perhaps a little,” he reached out and caressed the back of her arm.

“I think you only want me for my body,” she teased.

“Your beauty is certainly a benefit.”

“Then you would not care so for me if I were ugly?”

“I think I would,” he smiled, almost certain he was about to be drawn into a conversation built on hypotheticals that would not be entirely pleasant for him.

“You think?”

“Would you like me, if I were fat?”

“Of course! That would mean you had hired a good cook,” she retorted, looking a little smug.

“I can vouch for the quality of my kitchen, dear one,” Eomer’s hand hovered a moment before he remembered that they were once again in sight of the windows of the citadel, “you will never be hungry.”

She smiled, “Well, then I suppose you are acceptable as a suitor.”

“Would that I had known it was so simple to gain your approval,” he chuckled, “I have spent so much time worrying over something that a promise of a full stomach would assure.”

“I am only a simple maid, my lord. I know many people would submit to far worse conditions than this for a full stomach,” she pursed her lips, and looked back at him, “How do you do that?”

His brow furrowed, wondering what she meant.

“How do you make people feel so comfortable? I often feel after we’ve parted that I have said too much.”

He laughed, “I think you are among the few that finds me so. Most people that I do not know well tell me things because they are not comfortable in silence and seek to fill it with blathering. Those that know me…” he shrugged, trying to think out the words before he said them, “I can be difficult to know, but once you have my regard, it is hard to lose it, but once my regard is lost it is near impossible to regain.”

“Do you fear betrayal most, then?” she watched his face at the question.

“I fear it in the same you fear being forsaken,” he said carefully, “I fear it, because I have known it.”

Her face clouded a little, and he feared that he had offended her, until she said, “I wish you did not need to go tomorrow.”

“My oath holds, my lady,” his hand caught her arm, and making her meet his gaze, “I will come back to you.”

“Eomer,” she cut her eyes back to the citadel.

“Damn them,” he almost snapped, his face furrowing, “I do not care a pin at present what anyone would say. I am not going to die, and I am not going to abandon you.”

Her grey eyes took him in, and he could see her struggling to believe him. It felt as if a pin was being slow dug into his heart as he saw that small part of her that was holding her back from taking his words at their face value. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him, he knew she did, but he wondered how many times she had been let down.

“I give you my word,” his fingers twined with hers, “no one has managed to kill me yet, so why should this be any different? Hm?” He watched her gaze drop and wondered for a moment if he should tell her that he loved her. He wasn’t certain yet that he did, but he knew he would and was well on his way to it. No, he would wait.

Lothiriel squeezed his hand a moment before pulling her hand free, with an apologetic look and a checked glance over her shoulder, “Then I will try not to worry for your safety, my lord. In truth, I do not know what would befall your country if you fell.”

“If I do not return, my lady sister would become Queen of the Mark.”

“Perhaps I should knock you from the wall there then,” she smiled, “for she might prove a better ruler than you.”

“Undoubtedly,” he replied, “It might be in the interest of my people.”

“But the trial for murder of a King would be the talk of the town,” Lothiriel shook her head, “My family would be quite annoyed at the scandal.”

“I could preemptively pardon you,” Eomer looked at her, smiling a little.

“I am not sure there is a legal function for that.”

“I will have my lawyers look into it.”

She laughed, “You would not truly.”

“See if I do not,” Eomer narrowed his eyes, “I already need to have a document prepared for Eothain that he is allowed to insult me to a certain degree.”

Her eyes widened, “May I have one as well?”

“Absolutely not,” Eomer scoffed, “If we quarrel, I think I will need some means of protection against your sharp tongue.”

She reached out to take his arm, and stopped herself, “I keep forgetting that I am not meant to be so familiar with you, my lord.”

“I would have you be as familiar as you like,” he walked a little to close beside her, and liked the blush that burned her cheeks.

“I am certain you would,” she folded her hands in front of herself, “and more, perhaps.”

“Never more than you wish,” he assured her, waving a hand, “I would not have you uncomfortable for any reason.” He thought a moment, “How do I ask to court you, in an official way? I know I would have to speak to your uncle, rather than your father, but still…”

Her face looked hard for a moment, “I am trying to work out a way to get my uncle to accept you, I know that makes it sound…” she winced, “I think we might have to get Aragorn- I mean, we might have to ask the King to involve himself.”

“I will speak to him promptly,” Eomer promised, trying not to feel too smug or to point ought that he had said they might.

“You are never contented to sit idly, are you?”

“It is not my nature,” he said, smiling a little bashfully, “And though it seems that every part of your society is built to keep people apart, I would have you know that I consider myself bound to you, and do not seek any other company.”

“I appreciate that,” she chuckled, adding forthrightness to the list of things she knew about him. She liked him, and she wanted to be with him, but when she thought about it, they hardly knew each other. She paused a moment, “Depending on circumstances, would you accept a longer betrothal than would be normal?”

“I would,” he looked at her, thoughtful, “I know you have kept your own council for most of your life, and I know the reasons that you would keep secrets. But I would also hope that in time you would come to trust me with all of your secrets, and that I can trust you in the same way. I know that it takes time to build such trust, and to build a relationship, and I would give you all the time we need.”

“Thank you.”

“That said,” Eomer hesitated before going on, “I do not want to leave you here, in Lord Denethor’s care.”

She sighed, sounding so much older than she was, “I know, and I promise I am working out a few solutions. When Aragorn is coronated, I will try to petition him in some way, either for complete emancipation or else to have my custody returned to my father or…” she hesitated, and looked around, “If I can prove that Denethor has stolen public funds, perhaps he will be arrested.”

“How can you prove such a thing?”

“There must be a record somewhere,” she muttered, “and I know I have seen another book, I just… there are a few places it might be.”

“You have already done enough,” Eomer said, suddenly, “you have told Aragorn what you know, should your testimony not be enough.”

“No,” she said with a sad smile, “I have to find the other books, and give them to the King as proof, or else… I can tell Aragorn where to look, but if they are not in any of those places, it will be for naught, and Denethor will know I told. I can think of three places that are the most likely, but I worry that having known that I would know that those places are likely, that he would have moved them.”

He wanted to say so many things to her but checked all of them. She did not need to hear him say that someone else could do this, any member of her family could for once help her, should do this, or that she should not have to be afraid of doing the right thing. He thought to tell her that her uncle seemed to have all the cunning of a rabid dog. But none of these things would be helpful to her.

“I will need to get back to my rooms,” Lothiriel said after a moment, “my handmaid will be wondering where I have got to. She has been watching my every move, the demon.”

“Why not find some other woman for the position?”

She scoffed, “I would tell you, but you would only be irritable at the reasons for her being here.”

“Tell me that she is a spy and be done with it,” Eomer grumbled, “but pray tell me who she watches you for?”

She gave him a look, “She was mine, but who knows who pays her now. I’ll get a new girl, as soon as there is peace and time enough,” an idea struck her and he could see the wheels turning with gleeful malice, “Though I wonder if it would not be better to find who she might work for and use her as a way to control what information is given.”

“I had an idea, but,” he hesitated, “I am not certain that you might be able to pull off such a complicated scheme.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, you give your maid the sack,” he started, slowly, “and that is the entire plan.”

“You’re no fun,” she shook her head. At some point she was going to have to explain that his court was not exempt from gossip and intrigues.

“Having a handmaid, who from my understanding is your closest servant, that you can trust, sounds like fun, and not having someone reporting on you to others, that sounds like a perfectly wonderful way of life.”

“Fine,” she smiled, “I will do in time.” Her hand slid into the crook of his arm without thought, “but not because you have told me to. I am able to make up my own mind on any matter, you know.”

“Of course, darling,” he looked down at her, and he wished he could wrap that arm around her and hold her for a moment.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure, this chapter is kinda weird. It is less a stream, and more a quick jumble of events.
> 
> This story has come to a point where I sometimes feel like I'm flying by the seat of my pants. I have so many ideas and, as you can tell from this story so far, they span from angsty as all get out, to the crackiest absurdities. 
> 
> I should have the next chapter up soon.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me on this weird journey.

“I cannot believe I am asking this,” Eomer began with his usual level of irritability at having to ask Boromir and Erchirion anything, really to ask anyone anything of such a personal nature, “but how do your people court?”

“The same as anyone else, I would guess,” Boromir chuckled at the dark set of Eomer’s brow. He looked as if he was asking for council on some dire matter, his voice taking on a tone of solemnity, “Why do you ask?”

Eomer narrowed his eyes, “This is why I did not want to ask.”

“The politics are more complicated, I grant you, but if you want to romance Lothiriel it is simple enough. Bring her flowers, and sweets. She loves dancing, and poetry, so you might try that.” Boromir grinned at the quick look that flashed for a moment in Eomer’s eyes, “You look more terrified of that than of the battle that looms.”

“Eomer does not dance,” Eothain explained chuckling, “a thing that has led to many tearful ladies.”

Eomer jostled his friend with an elbow to quiet his gossiping tongue from teasing him further in front of these men that he liked, but who he did not know as well.

“You might try bringing her the heads of her enemies on a stick,” Erchirion said, suddenly. He had been sitting by with a vacant expression, and the others had wondered if he had been listening at all.

“Do not jibe the man,” Boromir scoffed.

“I only offer suggestions,” Erchirion threw his hand up, “it would make her life easier, and she might be honored and pleased.”

Eomer almost smiled, imagining bringing Lothiriel her uncle’s head on a pike with a shrug and an explanation that he could not decide on what flowers she might like, and thought it was a fair substitution. He could imagine her liking it or hating it in close to equal measure. It was something that he could manage, and he could think of a few heads that he could bring her.

They had to go to meet with Aragorn and the other leaders of the Army before they marched on the Black Gates in the morning, and it would not do to be late, or to be distracted. He needed to focus.

As they stood and made their way to Aragorn’s tent, and to the discussions they needed to have, Eomer’s ears picked out the sounds of laughter, and his gaze was drawn to Lord Peldirion for a moment.

“Eothain, if I were to ask you to do something,” Eomer began in a low voice, letting the others walk ahead of him, “would you do it?”

“Are you asking as my king or as a friend?” Eothain asked, meaning to joke until he saw the look that Eomer gave him, “You know I would.”

“Do you remember the Farmer’s daughter from that village in Kingstead, who came for the King’s Justice a few years back?” Eomer asked, leveling significance in his voice.

“Was that the one where your uncle could not decide?” Eothain asked, nodding “If I remember we found that fellow dead and robbed on the road.”

Eomer let out a quick grunt affirming, as he looked back at Peldirion.

“Too many witnesses for a robbery to go wrong,” Eothain muttered, not asking for any details or reason.

“He does not leave the field of battle,” Eomer said, looking back at Eothain.

The soldier nodded, “I’ll see it done, sire.”

Eomer nodded and went through to his meeting, with at least one less thing on his mind.

0x0x0

Her Lady Aunt received her politely but seemed a little more restrained toward Lothiriel than she was to Elphir, who she embraced quickly, sighing out her relief at his safe return. Ivriniel smiled carefully at Lothiriel, looking her over, “Welcome home, Lothiriel.”

“Thank you, Aunt,” Lothiriel grinned back, looking sheepishly between her aunt and her brother’s wife, Gadrien, as she followed them through to a sitting room, and her aunt asked a servant to bring refreshments.

“Unless you would rather rest and wash first?”

“In truth, I am famished,” Lothiriel replied, laughing a little as she spoke, and settled carefully into a cushioned seat.

Ivriniel raised a brow at her, and took her own seat, studying Lothiriel with care, as if she hadn’t realized that she was there at all, “You have been taking quite a bit of sun, it seems…” she hummed quietly for a moment, “You will need to regale up with your adventures, though perhaps you are weary already of telling it.”

“Were you really at the Hornburg?” Gadrien asked suddenly.

“How did you hear already?” Lothiriel asked.

“I’ve had letters, and they were likely sent a few days ago,” Ivriniel said primly, looking up at the maid who brought them coffee and finger-foods.

Lothiriel smirked, wondering which of her aunt’s spies had written to her, “Of course.” She watched as her aunt fixed her coffee and was surprised that she remembered how she took it.

Lothiriel took a few pieces of candied fruit and set them on a small plate, before telling them as much of her story as was appropriate, leaving out anything that would garner her another raised brow from her aunt, or make Gadrien’s eyes widen at her.

“Then you returned to Minas Tirith before you knew which way the battle had gone?” Ivriniel asked, still arching a brow at her.

“Yes, it was a little foolish, but-” she felt herself unable to speak suddenly at the look her aunt gave her. It was the very image of the look she wanted to give to every person that crossed her, or displeased her, but it was mastered beyond what Lothiriel had been able to manage.

“A little foolish?”

Lothiriel let her shoulders slump, “Very foolish. I should have stayed in Edoras.”

“In Rohan?” Gadrien asked, laughing a little, “As if you would be more safely kept with the Rohirrim.”

“I would have been, actually,” Lothiriel replied, trying not to be snippy.

“Indeed, you would have,” Ivriniel smirked, “Honestly, anywhere would have been better.”

“Uncle is…”

“I did not say anything about him,” her aunt said. Her tone was not testy per say, but it sounded to be a test, “I only meant with the war so open in our lands…” Ivriniel picked an invisible piece of lint from her skirt and flicked it delicately away.

“I know, but…” Lothiriel began, “I should not have come back to him, and I wish I had not returned to his house.” She could feel the lady’s eyes on her face and could feel her brother looking anywhere else.

There was a strained silence, as if the other people in the room had accepted their presence as expected, but perfunctory until Aunt Ivriniel made up her mind as to how she felt about Lothiriel.

“The question is, whether or not your regret is genuine,” Ivriniel said suddenly, looking Lothiriel square in her face, “or if it some lengthy ploy.”

“Auntie, I can assure you of one thing, and that is if I have to live out the rest of my life doing the bidding of Lord Denethor, I would rather walk into the sea and be done with it.”

“Let’s not be so dramatic, dear, it never accomplishes anything.”

“Never?” Lothiriel crooked a brow, “I have found it quite useful.”

“Because you are young and it is easy for men to think you are stupid, but you are not. So, stop pretending you are,” Ivriniel looked between Elphir and Gadrien, “I am certain you have both missed each other’s company, so you might go an enjoy it elsewhere.”

Lothiriel watched her brother, the man who was ruling the principality in her father’s stead, and who would do so after his death stand and take his wife’s hand and leave, their coffee all but untouched. Power had always been something that she wanted, the power to make people do what she wanted, to be feared, but she had never had that power in her own right. She wanted it so much.

“Are you quite through being a tool for someone else’s power?” Ivriniel asked, the intent of conspiracy hidden but for the glint in her eyes.

Lothiriel tilted her head a fraction, “In this case, I do not wonder if you mean to ask if I am through being Denethor’s tool, and if I am ready to be yours.”

Ivriniel smiled, a wide grin, “Perhaps, but I am going to give you a piece of advice that I wish someone would have given me when I was your age. Stop waiting for the men to save you. They will only disappoint you.”

“All of them?” It wasn’t a question that she meant to ask, but it had come out before she could stop it. Damn, she had been doing so well.

That brow raised again, “Have you found some gallant champion?”

“A lady might do better not to divulge any such personal information as you would ask.”

“Well, he’s a Rohirrim, I would guess,” Ivriniel settled back in her chair, her keen eyes studying her niece with a new interest, “since you said you would be safer in Edoras.”

“Theoden King assured me sanctuary as long as I should feel a need of it.” It was not a denial and so it was not a lie.

“But Theoden is dead,” Ivriniel said.

“His nephew, the new king would extend that same thing, if I had been smart enough to take it.”

There was something in her aunt’s gaze that made her feel as if she was a naughty child, something searching and scathing and she felt an urge to fill the silence, but she held her tongue. She had already said more that she ought to have. She tried to maintain her composure and stop herself from blushing.

“May I ask, what it is that has so turned you from your uncle?” Ivriniel asked.

“Would you rather the long version or the shorter?”

“Tell me the short, and I will decide if I would rather hear more,” Ivriniel said, refilling their cups carefully, her piercing gaze never leaving Lothiriel’s face.

0x0x0

The battle was over and won, strange as the ending of it had been. It was strange that the war was over, and that there was no longer some great mystical evil to fight. Almost all of Eomer’s adult life had been dedicated to this purpose, and while there would be skirmishes, and orcs to kill, he felt a sense of being purposeless for a moment.

As such Eomer found himself focusing on the matters of his personal life as they made their way back to Minas Tirith.

He tossed another piece of parchment in the fire, irritably, wanting to toss the pages at Boromir and tell him to write something that he could later transcribe, but not wanting to admit defeat.

“Compliment her bosom,” Eothain suggested suddenly.

“Do not, sire,” Elfhelm interjected quickly as if Eomer was going to write it down before he was stopped, despite the withering look he shot at Eothain.

“I oft compliment my wife’s physical charms, and she has never complained of it,” Eothain exclaimed, offended having his idea thrown aside so carelessly.

Eomer bit back a smile, “I do think that poetry is meant to be a bit loftier than the general compliments that one might pay a lady,” he looked to Erchirion, “or am I wrong?”

“Well, I certainly would rather live with the belief that you haven’t seen my sister’s… endowments…” Erchirion replied.

“I have not,” Eomer affirmed.

“Then you certainly could not lay praises anyhow,” Erchirion said, nodding.

Eothain glowered disapprovingly and nudged the man’s foot slightly to get it out of his way more out of irritation than anything else, “Well, if I am of no help, perhaps I ought to excuse myself to my baser understandings.”

There was enough on Eomer’s plate without needing to assure Eothain that he was still not in danger of being replaced, “No, stay,” he folded the page over, “I doubt I will get any work done.”

Boromir shook his head at the entire silly congregation that had gathered after the third or fourth ball of parchment Eomer had tossed in the fire with disdain, “Likely not, but I will advise you if you mean to try to write out something of value to your lady… I might make a suggestion. Sit quietly for a moment, close your eyes, imagine her, and then write what you feel. Poetry is personal, and not written by committee.”

Eomer stood, trying to be as casual as he could manage, “Will you excuse me a moment?” He wanted to speak with Aragorn before they returned to the city and see if he could beseech his friend to intervene in any way that might be appropriate.

He laid out his entire case to Aragorn and to Gandalf who sat by in silence, and at the end, Eomer felt that he had done rather a good job of explaining himself, and of keeping his temper in check as he spoke, and as he was given an answer.

“My friend, you know that I sympathize,” Aragorn began, “and you know that I have no great favor for the Steward, but as far as I can see, this is a family matter.”

“She is a princess,” Eomer said, carefully, “and as such, any matchmaking would need to have your approval.”

“And you have my approval, but I have more pressing matters than this,” Aragorn at least had the decency to look as if he felt terrible about the whole thing, “If Imrahil wishes his daughter returned to him, I will do what I can, but I need to ensure such a thing would not have ramifications beyond what may appear on the surface. If Imrahil petitions me, I will give such a request the attention it is due. But you understand that what you ask, to put it in perspective would appear that I, a new king, am giving an ally the hand of a princess of my realm as a reward.”

“Damn what it looks like, Aragorn. You cannot let her live with Denethor.”

“I do not intend to,” Aragorn assured him, “Imrahil and Boromir have already been bending my ear on this matter, and we are working to find a solution that would appease all.”

“And what have you considered thus far?” Eomer asked.

Aragorn studied him for a moment, “Imrahil wants his daughter to come home, and will as such file a petition in the way that such things are done. I will hear all sides, but I am of a mind to return her, and give them some time to mend their relationship.”

“What about appeasing all sides?”

“I am trying to work that out. I need the political backing of Denethor and his lords, and until such a time that we can prove some criminal case, we must keep the peace as much as we can,” Aragorn rubbed at his neck, trying to smooth the knots of contained frustration away as he did. “As to your involvement, I would advise you to request Lothiriel’s hand, and forestall a wedding to have the time you want to get to know each other better, as well as you can.”

“Alright, how do I do that?”

Aragorn smiled sympathetically, “Faramir is likely already helping your lady sister with that, if Boromir is right.”

Eomer felt for a moment as if the wind was knocked out of him, “Why would he do that?”

“Apparently, and you did not hear this from me, Lord Faramir is quite taken with Lady Eowyn.”

“He is what now?” Eomer felt his eye twitch a little.

“Does the idea of being like brothers with Boromir so disquiet you as that?” Aragorn laughed at the look of mortification on his fellow king’s face.

“Strange as it is, Boromir is not the reason for my concern,” Eomer grumbled back, “I do not want to leave Lothiriel, a young woman I have known for a month with Lord Denethor. Do you imagine I would be pleased to leave my sister in his house?”

Aragorn closed his eyes for a moment, wanting to say that Eowyn could easily kill the old man and save them all the trouble, but he could not say that out loud, nor could he say that he would pardon her if she did kill him. “They would not live with Denethor, as I am giving Faramir the Principality of Ithilien,” Boromir had insisted at length, and had not stopped listing reasons until Aragorn, beleaguered and wanting his bed had given his written agreement.

“That makes it more agreeable,” Eomer said after a moment, “I will do what you have advised, as long as I have your assurance that you will help where you are able, and will not turn a blind eye to what is happening in Denethor’s house.” Eomer watched Aragorn’s tired face for a moment before looking to the Wizard Gandalf who had watched the pair of them with a look of sympathy on his face. Eomer wondered how minor the concerns of a man’s personal life must appear to a wizard. He bowed, “I have taken too much of your time.” He bowed his head and left to resume the hopeless task of putting words on paper, “I thank you for your consideration, my friend.”

“I am already weary of Kinghood, and I have not yet begun the job in truth,” Aragorn mumbled sitting back and packing his pipe as soon as Gandalf and he were along, “I have not begun my reign, and already I have more politics to wrangle than I want.”

“The early days will be the hardest,” Gandalf assured him calmly, “You know that Denethor is likely guilty of all Lothiriel says and more.”

“I do not doubt it, but I need proof,” Aragorn studied his friend for a moment as he lit his pipe, “I do not suppose you have any vague hints you could give me.”

“Unfortunately, I do not.”

“Dare I ask what you think of this matter?”

“I was not inclined to trust the princess,” Gandalf began, “She has been Denethor’s spy for years, and I had not thought her more than that. But she seems earnest, and rather piteous. Marriages between Gondor and Rohan would be advantageous for diplomatic purposes.”

It was a clearer answer than Aragorn had expected, and he almost felt as if a feather would have knocked him over, “Agreed…” there was something he had meant to ask Eomer about, having mentioned it in passing to Boromir and Imrahil and had taken in their faces, shocked on Imrahil’s part, and surprised then vindicated on Boromir’s. He had seen the way that Prince Imrahil’s sons had looked at Lord Peldirion, and the way that Lothiriel and Eomer had.

“Did you hear Lord Peldirion died in the battle?” Aragorn asked, “It would seem a troll fell on him.”

“Are you concerned for the future of his holding?” Gandalf asked.

Aragorn looked back at the wizard, perplexed, “No, he has a cousin that will take up the house and the land… I meant more… well, trolls are slow beasts, and I wonder how someone would not know one was going to topple onto them.”

“No one can say what happens in the chaos of battle, you know that.”

0x0x0

Gadrien looked as started by Lothiriel’s entry into the sitting room as the other ladies. No one expected Her Highness to stoop to sitting in their company, she hadn’t done so on any of her visits before. She wondered if Lord Denethor was keen to hear the gossip of the ladies in Dol Amroth.

The only person that did not seem surprised was Lady Ivriniel, who smiled in that cryptic way she had and stood, greeting her niece and leading her along, pulling her hand into the crook of the matron’s arm, “Princess Lothiriel has offered to play the lute for our amusement. Was that not kind of her?”

“Very,” Gadrien smiled politely, but watching her husband’s sister like a hawk for any sign that she was up to something. She wanted to believe the young princess’ contrition, but then, she had hoped for friendship with Lothiriel before her wedding and had been disappointed time and time again. She passed a knowing look between herself a few of the other ladies who had come to do their embroidery and catch up on the gossip and news, and saw her distrust reflected back.

Lothiriel played beautifully, even if there was something strange in the way she played, a sort of melancholy that pieced Gadrien’s heart, as much as she tried to stop it doing so.

When she had first met Lothiriel, before she had married Elphir, Lothiriel had still been at school, and she had hoped that she would find a sister and a kindred spirit in Lothiriel. That hope had been disappointed time and time again, and Gadrien was hesitant to hope again. But there did seem to be something different in the girl.

0x0x0

After a few hours, Lothiriel excused herself, certain she was somewhere that she wasn’t wanted. She had done her best to talk with the other woman, to tell them what fresh news she had to give, but she could see their barely contained indignance, and had made up a reason for her to leave. In time they would come to trust her, but she wondered if Gadrien of Ivriniel had been the one to talk about her to inspire such looks of hidden loathing. Perhaps it was well known that she was untrustworthy, and every noble house in the country knew that it was better to quietly admit her and do nothing further.

She put on a dress that was a little shorter, so the sand from the beach would not be caught on the hem and be dragged into her rooms. It was not entirely decent for a princess of her age to dress so, but she might be taken for a common girl if anyone looked at her. She wouldn’t be recognized here, and it was the one blessing she could take from her long absences, that no one would look too hard at her. Tossing a few books, an apple, a roll, a knife and a blanket into a bag, she pinned a veil over her hair and left the palace though the servant’s passage without any concern.

In Edoras, ladies walked in the street with commoners and it was perfectly normal, but here it was expected that noble ladies would have some manner of escort, to ensure their safety.

She took her shoes off at the edge of the beach, and put them in her bag, and tried not to flinch at how hot the sand felt under her feet as she beelined her way to the water. There was a moment of hesitation before she stepped into the sea’s cool embrace. She kicked at the water a little as she walked, and bit back a laugh at the splash that came back at her, dampening the hem of her dress and the loose trousers she wore under it.

Running along the waterline, and trying not to stumble in the shifting sand, she giggled to herself, aware that she must look quite mad to anyone else, but not caring.

She found a spot in the shadow of the palace that she decided looked peaceful enough and set her blanket out and read her books and ate an apple, not wanting to leave.

0x0x0

“Apparently she hit her head quite badly,” Ivriniel said, as she watched Lothiriel running in the water, and spinning around.

“Clearly,” Elphir muttered, confused by her behavior, “I wonder how Lord Denethor feels about the change in her.”

“Do not speak of that vile man to me.”

“You hate him so much, and yet you will go to Minas Tirith?” It was posed as a question, but Elphir knew that there was a measure of duty in going to meet their new king for all of the noble families. He wondered if his family would try to match Lothiriel with this Aragorn fellow, who seemed a steady enough man.

“I will gladly go and watch him lose every shred of power that he had hoarded over the years,” Ivriniel sniffed delicately, doing her best not to glow with malice.

“Do you think she is truly…” Elphir did not finish the question.

“She seems to be earnest,” Ivriniel went on, watching the princess sit on her blanket, “Tell me, what Rohir holds her interest?”

Elphir’s eyes widened a fraction, “I know nothing about any interest.”

“A pity,” She tutted, her fingers tightening a little on the curtain she held open to watch the girl. She wondered if Lothiriel was in love, or if it was an infatuation, some one-sided pining that was the bane of a young woman’s days. Imrahil would finally need to do something about his daughter’s custody, if Lothiriel’s tale was any indicator. Things would only get worse for her if she stayed in the citadel.

She would have her handmaid and companion Merilineth see if she knew anyone in the capitol had the gossip on that score. Alternatively, she could wait until her other nephews came. Give Erchirion a glass of wine, and he would tell her anything, the sweet boy.

0x0x0

“Are you coming to Dol Amroth?” Erchirion asked.

“I should return to Minas Tirith, and make the arrangements for my uncle,” Eomer apologized, “before heading home.”

“You are leaving Gondor?”

“I think I should put my mind to duty rather than frivolity.”

“It would only be a few days,” Boromir assured him, “If you wanted to ride with us. We would only stay a day or so and then bring our aunt and the other ladies of the family back to the capitol.”

“My sister will be there,” Erchirion teased in a singsong voice.

Eomer glowered at him for a moment.

“You could send someone to begin the arrangements,” Eothain suggested.

“Fine, you go with the others,” Eomer said, dismissively, knowing a set up when he saw one, and not having the mental energy of willpower at present to argue his way out of it.

“But I want to go to Dol Amroth!” Eothain protested, “I have heard it said they eat food that hurts the mouth, and the sun seeks to burn a man to death!”

Eomer stared at him, trying to work out what part of this request was the most stupid part, “Why did I make you a King’s Guard, again?”

“Because I am much more fun that Gamling is,” Eothain smiled and looked at the older man for affirmation, receiving only a slow smirk and a shake of the head, “Besides, you need a rest, and I do not want to do anything that requires responsibility on a level beyond my station.”

Lord Elfhelm chuckled, “I will go and begin things, and I will await your return, and instructions, Your Majesty.”

“I thank you,” Eomer said, meaning it, “At least someone in this conspiracy has a measure of focus.” He wanted to grumble at the lot of them that he missed his home, his own bed and his dog, and was not of a mind to ride across the country. He would have done, if not for Erchirion’s teasing words. More than those things, he wanted to see Lothiriel for a time before he left Gondor. He would return soon enough for Aragorn’s coronation, but still, he had promised her that he would come back to her, and he was bound by the feeling that he needed to more out of a certainty that if he did not he would either go mad or offend her, than by the fact that he had said he would.

In truth he had been trying to work out how to achieve the goal before the other’s presented their poorly arranged plan to him as a casual invitation.

0x0x0

Ivriniel leaned over the balcony and did something that she personally did not think that a lady should ever do. “Lothiriel!” she shouted, her hands cupped around her mouth, “The boys are coming home!”

The princess’ dark, uncovered head swiveled back to look up at Ivriniel and she leapt up, snatching her things and shoving them carelessly into her rucksack and ran along the sand toward the stairs to the back entrance of the palace.

It crossed Ivriniel’s mind a moment too late to tell her niece to dress in something more appropriate, and to put her damn veil back on her head. She had started to unpin it from her head when she was certain no one was around to object to it.

She was going to mention to her brother that Lothiriel had becoming quite wild the next time she saw him but would do her best not to sound exasperated by it. Crossing to the large foyer to greet her nephews and whoever the blonde strangers with them were, she adjusted her own veil, checking the pins in her hair and smiling at Gadrien. In her opinion the woman was at least pretty and presentable and had been able to give Elphir two children so far and had not complained much over the fact that her husband’s eye wandered. It only did so when she was with child, so there was hardly any true concern in that, as it came with the title.

The boys came into the palace with all the carelessness of young men that had never wanted for anything, their bows a quick afterthought as they approached to greet her.

She had not seen Boromir in a few years and still he grinned at her the way he had as a child, “Welcome, my lords,” she said, doing her best to remain elegant and composed in front of their guests rather that throwing her arms around each of them and kissing their dirty faces. “Refreshments are being prepared and should be served soon enough,” she smiled, searching the faces of the strangers from Rohan.

“Auntie,” Boromir said, “may I present Eomer, King of Rohan.”

“We are honored by your visit, Your Majesty,” she curtsied as low as her trick hip would let her, watching the young man look around the hall with barely contained awe.

He was younger than she had expected, but then, she had expected Theodred to be king of Rohan, and knew she had met Eomer and his sister briefly years before but knew little enough about either of them beyond that.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” King Eomer bowed his head, “Your home is lovely.”

Ivriniel smiled, and began to thank him for his comment, which would hopefully forestall further statements of gratitude but was cut short as Lothiriel hurried into the room a few minutes later than would have been helpful, and would have been more acceptable if she had changed out of her damned peasant-wear, or at least walked in to the room more gracefully.

Lothiriel smiled in spite of the mildly exasperated look that Ivriniel shot her.

“You have met my lady niece, I believe?” Ivriniel asked, turning her attention back to the Rohirrim, noting the quick straightening of the king’s shoulders, and the tender look that came into his eyes.

“We are acquainted,” King Eomer smiled, bowing his head a fraction.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lothiriel smiled, “How lovely to see you again.”

Ivriniel looked between them a moment before looking at the king’s guard. He was likely new to the post, she guessed, from the barely hidden amusement on his face.

The light sound of a silver bell rung out, and Ivriniel gestured to the smaller dining room, “Shall we?”

King Eomer looked hesitant for a moment before saying in stilted Sindarin, “Yes, I am to be in possession of many foods now, please.” He looked pleased with himself, and it made Ivriniel smile a little, even if the other members of the family took a moment to join her in appreciating the gesture, save Lothiriel who failed to contain a wide smile.

Boromir fell in step beside her, and she took his arm.

“Sit on Lothiriel’s other side,” she whispered to him in Sindarin.

“Alright, Aunt,” Boromir said, “may I ask why?” He knew full well she had not supported the arranged engagement, not because she had said, but because he knew her.

“I am curious about something is all.”

“You could simply ask.”

“My dear nephew, where is the fun in that?”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dumb, and you have been warned.

Water was brought, and Eomer watched the family wash their hands quickly before following their lead, trying not to stare at the high ceilings and the mosaics carefully wrought into the marble.

Lunch was mostly light fare, salad, a fish and rice dish and grape leaves stuffed with spiced meats. The meal was at least filling but was comprised of dishes Eomer had never seen before, and none of them seemed to fulfill Eothain’s insistence that the food would hurt to eat, and Eothain seemed almost disappointed by that.

The dining table was a large circular one, in a room that seemed more for the family’s use than for hosting large functions, a suspicion that was quickly confirmed by Lord Elphir wife who had been gently shifted around the table to sit beside Eomer.

“We were not expected any royalty,” Lady Gadrien said apologetically, “I hope we have no offered offence, Your Majesty.”

“Not at all,” he assured her, doing his best not to stare at Lothiriel. He wondered where she had been. She was not dressed like her aunt or her sister-by-laws and had come tearing in as if she had run across the city to meet them. “I am pleased you have extended your hospitality to us.”

Lady Gadrien smiled back, “You have never been this far south, I would guess.”

“Never. I have been to Minas Tirith twice now in my life.”

“Elphir,” she called gently across the table, “Perhaps His Majesty would like to go out on one of the boats.”

“I doubt there will be time,” Eomer smiled politely. He had been on ferries, and that seemed enough of a sojourn on the water to him.

“No, we should leave in the morning, if the ladies will be ready,” Lord Amrothos replied, giving Lothiriel a quick look before saying something that sounded like a well-worn insult disguised as teasing in Sindarin.

Lothiriel narrowed her eyes a moment before giving him a hard smile, and Eomer could see her jaw tighten a little before she replied, “I think it is considered rude to not speak in a tongue understood by everyone, my lord brother.”

Ivriniel clucked her tongue on any retort that would be given, and Amrothos made a face at his sister before refilling his cup.

The family resemblance was strange and had almost rendered Eomer dumb the first moment he saw Lady Ivriniel. He could see some similarities between Lothiriel and each of her brothers but sitting next to her aunt he could see how, their age aside, they looked almost as if they could be sisters. It was a stupid thought, and one that he wished he hadn’t had, but Lothiriel had mentioned once that she had been told she had a passing resemblance to the Steward’s late wife, Finduilas, and Eomer wondered how much more someone could look like Lothiriel.

Her eyes caught his for a moment, and he could see her breathing change a little as the corners of her mouth fought a smile.

He had been doing his best not to stare at her, or at the large tapestry that hung behind her.

It was the strangest tapestry that Eomer had ever seen. It was beautifully crafted, and he knew next to nothing about any sort of art, but the use of green and blue to shade against the reds was impressive. It was not the execution that he found strange, it was that he was more than a little certain that it was not actually meant to depict fruit.

It was at least a consolation that Eothain had stared at it for a moment before looking silently at Eomer with a look that begged him to deny what they were seeing. For a moment, Eomer had been certain that his mind was playing tricks on him, and that he had been thinking too much about the things that he was not allowed to do with Lothiriel. Eothain’s head had shifted a little and he could see his friend trying not to laugh.

“Do you like it?” Ivriniel asked, making Eomer realize that he had looked back at the tapestry again.

“It is certainly well rendered,” Eomer said, diplomatically, not noticing the looks between the rest of the family as they all tried not to laugh. “though, the subject…?”

“Pomegranates,” Ivriniel said, smiling politely, “It is a fruit that we have here,” she gestured at the red fruits, sliced open and served with tiny forks to pull the seeds loose easily.

“Of course,” Eomer smiled, trying not to look back at Eothain. He could almost feel his friend’s eyes shifting between the fruit and the tapestry, as if looking for confirmation. “It is lovely.”

He could see the similarity but was fairly certain that there had been some artistic liberties taken. Nodding politely through Ivriniel’s explanation of the artist and their intention and use of color and space, Eomer wondered if they knew that they had a tapestry featuring the female organ on the wall in their dining room.

“My lady grandmother collected tapestries,” Elphir said, coughing a little, “and this was one of her favorite pieces.”

Eothain coughed a little, trying not to laugh.

The conversation thankfully moved away from the topic and Eomer decided to stare at his plate and say nothing further.

He liked the palace better than the citadel so far. The citadel of Minas Tirith was all white stone with little color besides the black columns in the Hall of Kings, but this palace was so full of color and light. Dol Amroth was admittedly a little too warm for his tastes, but they kept all the windows open, and the breeze from the sea did its best to combat his sweating.

Lothiriel seemed at some level of ease with her family, he could see some of the walls were still up behind their eyes, but Lady Ivriniel leaned a little nearer and said something in Sindarin in a low tone, making Lothiriel smile and shake her head.

Eomer looked around himself, trying not to feel uncomfortable at the chuckles from Lord Erchirion and Lady Gadrien.

“It is not polite to speak in a language that any member of a party might not understand,” Lord Elphir said diplomatically.

Erchirion made a face at his brother.

“No, you are correct,” Lady Ivriniel smiled, folding her hands in her lap, “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.”

“Think nothing of it,” Eomer smiled, “I was just thinking how you all seemed like such a nice family.” It was the simplest way he could think to say it. He almost wished that he could watch them without their knowing, and he hoped ardently that they would be as comfortable as they seemed now, even in spite of the misgivings they seemed to have.

“We will get some things packed for a time,” Lady Ivriniel said, gently, “after we finish eating. But we have a few of the ladies from the city coming for a few hours this afternoon,” she touched Lothiriel’s hand carefully on the table.

There was a small shift in Lothiriel’s face that he couldn’t quite decipher, as she nodded to her aunt.

He began to ask Lady Gadrien if everything was alright, but he checked himself, remembering that he did not know the lady, and was not certain what, if anything, Lothiriel had told them.

Lady Ivriniel stood gracefully after ensuring with a glance that everyone had finished their lunches, and everyone else followed suit, “Ladies, let us to our effects.”

Eomer began to move from the table before Erchirion gestured for him to stay, as the other men all did, feeling a little embarrassed for moving naturally after Lothiriel.

Lothiriel shot him a quick look before following after her aunt, her sister-in-law following her and giving her a confused look.

“What do we do now?” Eomer asked, watching the men walk through to an open sitting room, save Elphir who stayed back to tell a servant to bring them something called coffee.

“Well, Elphir likely wants news,” Amrothos said, with a biting tone as he dropped into a low cushioned seat.

“I would like some, if you would give it,” Elphir pushed his brother’s shoulder, reminding him to check his manners.

“I would think your Lady Aunt would want to hear, as well,” Eomer smiled.

“She has ears all over the country,” Erchirion said, “and likely already knows more even than we do.”

Eomer smiled politely, trying not to look back after Lothiriel and made the mistake of letting his gaze fall on the tapestry again, feeling his head tilt a little.

“Have you ever had a pomegranate?” Erchirion asked, casually, “I only ask because you seem so confused by that piece.”

“I have not,” Eomer said, hesitating as Boromir offered to snatch one from the lunch table for him to sample, “I only wonder if perhaps I am not mad.”

“Why?” Amrothos asked, smirking.

“It is only that it seems to be…” his voice failed him, and his looked at where Eothain stood posted by the door, having taken a few things from the table to try, and secreting them away somewhere on his person. His friend shook his head as if to say, “Don’t ask me.”

“To be?” Erchirion asked. His brow was dropped low as if preparing himself for some insult to be given to a family heirloom.

“Well…” Eomer hadn’t meant to say anything further, but now backed into a corner, he supposed he might as well say it and accept their ridicule if he was wrong or crass, “Does it not seem to be a collection of quims?”

There were actual gasps and looks of horror and disgust.

“How can you say such a thing?” Elphir demanded, “Are you inferring that my grandmother bought a vulgar tapestry and put it up in the family dining room!?”

“I mean no offense-” Eomer was cut off by the collected laughter.

“Our grandmother did not buy one vulgar tapestry but two,” Boromir explained, “There is another that is a lovely assortment of interestingly shaped vegetables. My mother was given it for her wedding.”

“Is it in the citadel?” Eomer asked, wanting to see the partner to the thing he now stared at, and wondering if there was a way that he could sneak both of them from their owners without anyone taking notice.

“Yes, but it is not displayed. My father found it base and disgusting and had it locked away. I found it and am keeping it safe.”

“Why?” Eomer gestured at the woven art, wanting to know what had driven their grandmother to buys such a thing.

“Our grandmother had a strange sense of humor, rest her soul. She took little pleasure in anything as much as she did watching people either not realize what they were looking at, or else try far too hard not to,” Elphir laughed, “We have never been able to decide if father or Auntie know, and at this time none of us are brave enough to ask.”

For a moment, Eomer wanted to ask who stood to inherit the tapestry, or how much the Prince’s family would want to let him take it home with him. He could imagine Eowyn’s face if she saw this piece but decided against it. The thing likely held sentimental value, and they would likely never part with it, no matter how much Eomer wanted it, or a replication of it. He was not even certain where he would put it, but he wanted it, even just to own something so audacious.

Eomer started to ask the question but closed his mouth as a servant entered with a silver coffee set. He had never heard of coffee and being too nervous to ask had sat silently and waited for whatever it was to be brought. Now, he watched the lord pour a dark hot liquid into their cups with some interest. He wondered if it was something like tea, and being offered it, accepted quickly, thinking it smelled nice. The servant bowed and left the room.

“Eothain,” Erchirion called, “You needed stand at your post. The palace is safe,” he gestured to an open seat, “Come sit with us.”

Eothain looked at Eomer as if asking permission but moved, without waiting for that permission, to take a seat and accepted a cup with some hesitance.

“How is she doing?” Boromir asked Elphir, adding more sugar to his coffee than a man of his age likely should have taken.

“In truth,” Elphir began slowly, hesitating a moment, wondering if he could trust Eomer well enough to speak openly about family matters in front of him, but it seemed that the others trusted him, “Auntie has forgiven her, and seems to have put every mistrust away, but some of the ladies still seem not so inclined.”

“I can promise you that any amends that she is making are genuine,” Erchirion said, waving a hand in front of him.

“That is funny coming from you,” Elphir scoffed, narrowing his eyes a little as he tried to gauge how much the reminder was hurting his brother, “You always forgave her everything, even that whole matter with your elopement.”

Eomer looked between the brothers, blowing into the delicate cup to cool the coffee. There was a soft throat clearing, and he looked at Boromir, who smiled, and poured a small measure of coffee into his saucer to let it cool before drinking it from the swooped dish. Eomer tried to replicate it, and managed it, if a bit less gracefully.

“You know that Caranorien and Lothiriel had some bad feelings from school. I doubt that she acted maliciously,” Erchirion grumbled back, “and I would guess that it was uncle’s doing anyway.”

“She is grown enough that she should be responsible for her own actions,” Amrothos snapped.

“And she is trying to be,” Boromir interjected, leaning forward a little, “and I am certain that would offer some explanation for Auntie’s forgiveness,” he looked at Eomer, “Our aunt hates my father,” he explained, “and is open with her feelings toward him.”

“Is she?” Eomer asked, as Eothain bit back a laugh, “I do not imagine Lord Denethor likes that.”

“He calls it the bantering nature of their relationship and is certain that she does not mean a word of it.”

Eomer smiled, “I know it is inappropriate, but I am more than a little excited to watch that unfold.”

“Bring provisions,” Erchirion smirked, “for we may all need to barricade ourselves in our chambers until their battle ends.”

“I doubt it will be as bad as that,” Elphir shook his head, “She avoids him as much as she can do, and I doubt there is much cause that will change that… besides politics.” Elphir’s sharp eyes looked between Boromir, Erchirion and Eomer, and the strange furtive look they gave each other, as if they were trying to communicate something. “What has happened now?”

“There is a small matter, which should be easily remedied,” Boromir said, his charming smile in place, “I might mean to ask aunties help to ensure that we can make a match for Lothiriel that will ensure that my father does not interfere or force us back into the arrangement he made for us.”

Elphir looked at Amrothos, who’s face had fallen into a defaulted look of disinterest, but there was something in the look that made it clear that he thought planning against the steward was a losing battle with more steps.

“So, do you want to marry my sister, then?” Elphir asked Eomer, pieces of information sliding into place. His aunt was going to love this.

“If she would have me,” Eomer said honestly.

“Do you think she would?”

“I hope so.”

Erchirion laughed suddenly, nudging Eomer, “He is absolutely and hopelessly in love with Lotty.”

Eomer huffed at Erchirion, “Hush now.”

“You should have ridden with us,” Amrothos said, a teasing smirk on his face, “the pining this man made us witness made me want to let an orc run me through to never need to see it again.”

“I am not that bad.”

Eothain let a snort out, forgetting where he was for a moment, and smiling at the look Eomer shot him.

“See?” Erchirion laughed.

“Do not say anything that will embarrass me, or I will have you banished,” Eomer said, his voice firm, but that hardness did not quite make it to his eyes.

Erchirion grinned, “Say what you will, and if you are banished, I will take you into my house!”

“Can I bring my wife and son?” Eothain asked.

“Of course!”

Eothain’s smile was mischievous, his face changing comically, “’Eothain, what if Lothiriel chooses someone else?’” he asked in a comically wistful voice, resting a hand over his heart, “’What if she has already forgotten me?’”

Eomer kicked at him as the other men laughed, save Elphir who seemed confused and uncertain.

“There, there,” Boromir laughed, trying to regain his composure at the look of mortification that flashed across Eomer’s face, “Love makes fools of us all.”

“What think you, then?” Elphir asked the guard directly, “Would your people accept a queen from Gondor?”

“I do not think there would be any animosity toward your sister. She has made some friends already,” Eothain said, easily, smiling, “In truth, I am of the opinion that if they like each other well enough to marry, it should not be anyone else’s concern.”

Elphir did his best to smile at the naïve thought, “Well, I do not envy you the job of telling our father.”

“He knows already,” Boromir said, waving the concern away, “and I think Auntie is putting it together.”

Eomer felt a sudden wave of anxiety come over him. He had already been nervous enough at meeting the family’s matriarch, and that anxiety had been soothed a little by Lady Ivriniel’s polite nature, but now he wondered if she was watching him and waiting for him to act so that she could make some determination of his character.

He wanted to see Lothiriel but being unfamiliar with the ways of this place hesitated to ask after her, or if he might expect to see her between now and dinner. A part of him hoped in vain that he might find a way to sneak into his rooms later after everyone had retired for the night, and he tried to push it from his mind. He wanted to see her, and to be alone with her, but he was not entirely certain what the consequences would be if someone saw her leaving his room in the middle of the night. He was not entirely sure of what those consequences would be, but he didn’t imagine her family would be pleased, and he was doing his level best to keep himself in their esteem.

“You see?” Amrothos groaned, gesturing at Eomer, “This is what Erchirion spoke of.”

“I said nothing…” Eomer replied, feeling a little disquieted at the youngest son’s proclamation.

“It is all but engraved on your face.”

Elphir held back a snort, at that. He saw no such thing, but then they had been near Eomer a few times now. To his eye, the King of Rohan was a grim and austere man, a few years younger than himself. There were moments where his features softened a little, but he could not see much cause for any interest on Lothiriel’s part. He would mention it to his wife later, and Gadrien smirked and told him that Lothiriel could certainly do worse than a King and made some vague statement that King Eomer was not the least attractive man she had ever seen.

Eomer’s eyes narrowed a small fraction, and his guard laughed, clapping his shoulder, to assure him that he was not being attacked in some way.

Watching the familiarity, Elphir wondered if they were friends, or if such gestures between royalty and their guards in Rohan. He had to assume that they were friends for the teasing Eothain seemed willing to pour on his king’s head. Even so, it seemed so strange and inappropriate.

“She ought to be with the ladies at present,” Elphir said, feeling the need to say something if only to take his mind away from his discomfort with the complete lack of propriety.

“Do you think…” Eomer started but stopped.

Erchirion and Amrothos looked at each other quick as a loosed arrow, the mischief clear between them.

“I dare say she could use a rescue,” Amrothos said, a little too sweet in his helpfulness, a thing that passed Eomer’s notice entirely, but did not quite slip past the guard, who smirked back, shaking his head and resigning himself to whatever was going to happen.

“It would not be a trouble?” Eomer asked, “I mean, I am not a relative, and I do not want to act inappropriately.”

“We are much more casual here,” Erchirion assured him, “If my sister is having a difficult time with the other ladies, I think she, and our aunt would be quite pleased of your honorable intention in removing her from an awkward situation.”

Boromir looked between them all in a state of paralyzed uncertainty. The ladies would certainly not be pleased. At best, it would create a bit of an awkward situation, as collecting Lothiriel would mean entering Aunt Ivriniel’s rooms without being invited, in the family’s wing of the palace. At worst, it would mean offending the ladies and their sense of privacy. He knew that the younger sons likely meant no true harm in this practical joke, and more than likely only wanted to play with their sister’s new and unofficial suitor, having been robbed of any such opportunity before.

He should say something, but then Lady Eowyn had told him to stay out of the relationship between Lothiriel and Eomer, and this would serve as a sort of bonding opportunity for Eomer and Lothiriel’s brothers, and one not made by necessity and battle. Elphir said nothing and looked rather intrigued and amused by the burgeoning faux pas, so if anyone was going to say anything it would fall to Boromir or Eothain, who seemed to have a sense of what was happening.

By the time Boromir came to a decision, he realized that Eomer had already gone. Lothiriel’s brothers and Eothain were trailing after him at a respectful distance so that he might not notice them following him as he followed the path of corridors and stairwells that he had been instructed to take.

“Oh bother…” Boromir grumbled, trying to pull himself out of the chair against the will of his aching knee. There was a quick pang in his chest as he realized that Theodred would have loved this.

0x0x0

Lothiriel sat plucking away at her lute and trying to ignore the whispered gossiping between the ladies. She wanted to know what they were talking about, and she wanted to be included, but it would take them time to accept that she would not turn their words against them. She looked through the window at the sea, studying the shifting tones of blue and silver and smiling to herself at the smell of salt on the air.

She felt of two minds at having Eomer in her family’s house. She was glad that he could visit, and see the house, the city and the sea, even if it was only for the day. But she wished that she could show him around and did not have to pretend still that they hardly knew each other beyond the polite greetings they had exchanged.

The door opened and every voice stopped. She could almost hear the eyes widening and she turned to see who had come into the room and had to do her best to still the smile before it formed on her face.

Eomer stood there in the doorway, looking at the ladies as they stood and curtsied, and stared at him, and he stared back, his mouth open as if he had begun to ask a question and then had the wind knocked out of him.

“Your Majesty,” Ivriniel’s smile was a little strained, “We had not expected such an honor.”

He cleared this throat, “I am sorry, ladies,” he bowed, “I… uh…” They could hear laughter down the hall, and Eomer’s face reddened a little, looking at Lothiriel for a moment, “I had wondered if perhaps I might ask Princess Lothiriel to give me a tour of the grounds.”

There were sideways glances between the ladies, and they all checked themselves from craning their necks to look at Lothiriel for her reaction.

Ivriniel did her best to soften her smile, “Of course, Your Majesty,” she gestured Lothiriel to her side, waiting a moment as she set her lute aside, her hand hovering at the small of Lothiriel’s back as the ladies approached the door, “Let us just find one of my nephews to act as an escort.”

“Thank you,” Eomer smiled apologetically, “Again, I beg your pardon.”

“It is certainly alright,” Ivriniel closed the door behind them, and made her way down the corridor to where her nephews and the guard stood, all seeming to be at varying levels of amusement.

She did not completely understand the relationship between the King of Rohan and the guard that he had brought and hoped that they were friends and that she was not going to have to tolerate a whipping.

Looking over her nephews carefully, Boromir was the only one that looked concerned and contrite at all, but she doubted he had planned anything, but Amrothos looked like he would die of holding the laugh in. She smacked the side of his head, not hard, more as a careworn gesture. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” she smiled back at him a moment, before speaking to her boys, “Lothiriel is going to show His Majesty around and require a chaperone. I trust you to work this out,” she curtsied and returned to the ladies, certain she was going to need to stop wagging tongues in her parlor.

0x0x0

“My brothers are fools,” Lothiriel said quietly, walking beside him on the beach, looking up at him, and liking the way the afternoon sun caught his hair, making a golden crown about his head, “and you should not pay them any mind.”

“I know,” Eomer said, folding his hands behind his back, “They are only meaning to put me through such games because they know I care for you. I have done such things before to the boys that Eowyn fancied,” he admitted, smiling a little.

“But it still makes you uncomfortable?”

His shoulders shifted a little, “They mean no malice, and so I will not mind it terribly.”

She did not believe him, but was not going to tell him so, “Do you like Dol Amroth? I know you haven’t seen any of it, but…?”

“It is lovely,” he smiled a little, “I like the colors here. And I have never seen the sea before.” He stooped and picked up a shell, “What is this?”

“A seashell.”

He scraped a nail over it, testing the texture of the strange stone.

“There are creatures that live in the water, and these protect them,” she said, turning the shell over in his palm, “There are many different types and they wash up here, when those creatures outgrow them.”

“Then it is like armor for fish?” Eomer asked, smiling a little at the laugh she gave him.

“Not for fish, but other things, yes, I suppose,” she picked it up and held it to look at the color in the sunlight, “You found a good one.”

He watched her, not certain what made a shell good, and if they were worth any money, but he smiled at her, “Then I make it a gift to you.”

“Thank you,” she smiled, back at him, her cheeks dimpling, “I will need to give you something in return.”

“What did you have in mind?”

She blushed a little, looking over his shoulder, “Are you hungry at all? There is a vendor just there.”

“Alright,” he nodded, watching her hurry across the sand. He did not hear Erchirion come up behind him, the sand muffling the sound of footfalls.

“How many have you gotten?” Erchirion asked.

“Pardon?” Eomer asked, wary.

“Shells, how many have you given Lothiriel?”

“Just the one,” Eomer prepared himself for some teasing or illusion that would either go over his head or drop them both in the gutter.

Erchirion’s face dropped, “You have not collected any others? Did Boromir not tell you?”

“Should I have?”

“If you mean to follow the traditions here.”

Eomer frowned, “I doubt that. I think you mean to make me look like a fool again.”

“Look, that was… I am sorry, but it was funny,” Erchirion sounded apologetic, “There is an old tradition here, where a man besotted gives a woman a collection of seashells before a marriage. Each shell is good luck and is meant to represent a year of happy marriage.”

“Truly?” Eomer asked.

“It would be seen as a sweet gesture,” Erchirion smiled.

She had seemed rather impressed with the one shell Eomer had given her, and there were quite a few of them scattered over the shore, so it should not be too terribly hard to collect them up. He looked back at Eothain who looked confused, and it seemed genuine so perhaps it was real.

Lothiriel returned with two bags of candied nuts, and she tilted her head at the scene playing out before her. Her brother sat in the sand, insisting that it was bad luck to help as Eomer and Eothain sifted through the sand, plucking shells up as if they were mining gold.

“What are you doing?” she called out to them.

“Looking for shells,” Eomer said, smiling back at her.

“Alright,” she shook her head a little, holding out a cup to him, watching with some amusement as he tried to dust that sand from his fingers.

“How many should I collect?” Eomer asked after taking a drink.

“As many as you want,” she laughed, “no one is going to complain of their absence from where you found them.”

“Yes, but how many would you like?” Eomer asked, “How many would be appropriate?”

She tilted her head a moment before it clicked in her head, and she clicked her tongue before swatting the side of her brother’s head. She switched to Sindarin, “Stop playing with him!”

Eomer’s shoulders shifted a small measure, “Well played, my lord.”

Erchirion stood, dusting himself as best he could, “I am sorry. That was the last one, I promise.”

“May I?” Eothain asked.

“Please,” Lothiriel gestured vaguely, not certain what Eothain was asking until he smacked the other side of Erchirion’s head. She should not have laughed, but she did.

Her brother accepted the punishment, nodding to himself, “I deserve that.” He watched his little sister continue walking with the man she liked and shook his head. “I remember her being so young, you know?” he asked Eothain, who was studying him carefully.

“I do… I have been friends with Eomer since we were children,” Eothain said, his head tilting a little.

“The stories you could tell…” Erchirion grinned.

Eothain nodded, “I would ask, if you are able, to take an easier approach. I know that you are acting as most brothers would, and that you do not mean harm.”

“But?”

He searched for the right words to say, how to explain what he meant without making his king, his friend seem weak to this man who had only known them a few days, “Eomer has always been sensitive, but he has had to hide that, and to always seem strong. Embarrassment is a hard thing for him. He has always had a hard time finding comfort with new people, and he fears being laughed at.”

Erchirion’s face fell, “I did not know.”

“Most people do not,” Eothain waved off the dismay, “That is one of the reasons he is always so…” he squared his shoulders and made his face into a scowl, imitating his friend.

“He seems confident enough,” Erchirion asked, studying the king carefully. “He does appear comfortable with my sister, I grant you.”

“I would hope that I can trust to your discretion on this matter,” Eothain said, brusquely, “he does not like to have people speak about him behind his back.”

“You make fun of him often.”

“I have earned that right,” Eothain laughed, “I owe him my life many times over.”

“You have fought together,” Erchirion said, voicing the obvious, but noted a glint in the soldier’s smile.

“I married young, I fell in love with my wife when I was seventeen, but her father would not let us marry until we were one and twenty. It was a fair thing, for we were wild youths, and I think he wanted to be certain that Waerhild knew everything that she would need to run a house.”

“How wild?”

Eothain looked at the princeling for a moment, “Our customs are different, and my wife’s father is a good man. He is strict, and initially did not like me much, and I will admit that I now understand it. One night, after a bit too much to drink, we hatched a plan, Eomer and I, to sneak me in through her window after the house was asleep. I stood on Eomer’s shoulders until she opened the window and told me to go home.”

“Were you disappointed?”

“No. I was young, and in love. She gave me a kiss and told me to come for the morning meal with her family. And all was well until her father saw us from his window and my weight shifted and I fell. Eomer carried me far enough away that Waerhild’s father would be discouraged from chasing me down,” Eothain chuckled shaking his head. Bema, they were fools.

“Were you hurt?” Erchirion asked, having hung on every word of the story, and wanting more details. He wondered if having been young and drunk if some of the finer points of the story were forever lost to oblivion.

“I sprained my knee, but in truth, I think I would have hurt myself if I had not been drunk enough that my body did not think to tense. But you had best believe that I hobbled on crutches to eat with her family in the morning.”

“Her father let you in the house?!” Erchirion asked, his eyes widening.

“No, he took one look at me, and closed the door. He opened a window and gave me a plate, and that seems to be the compromise Waerhild made.”

Further ahead, Lothiriel squeezed Eomer’s hand, a moment before she released it, “Well, at least my brothers like you a little.”

He grunted an affirmation, trying to talk himself out of walking into the sea to avoid further embarrassment.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, so here's the new chapter. There's some light NSFW in the latter part of it.

The dinner was nice, though Eomer had a sneaking suspicion that he and Eothain were being served plainer foods than the family would normally eat. He was almost certain that Lady Ivriniel had told the cooks to do so and had acted out of a concern for her guests’ comfort. She had invited Eothain to eat with them, rather than standing at his post behind Eomer. She seemed to be a considerate person, and he wondered what her opinions were of Lothiriel’s custody.

“So, I think, Your Majesty, that I must ask a question that you might not like to be asked,” Lady Ivriniel smiled politely.

Eomer nodded slowly, waiting for the question to be posed.

“Are you intending to marry Lothiriel?” Ivriniel had a sharp gaze, and he had not realized how piercing her look was when she meant to implement it.

He felt the color raising in his face, and he fumbled for words, feeling every other head at the table swiveling to look at him, every head but Eothain who made a careful show of cutting the food on his plate into small pieces. “I want Princess Lothiriel to make whatever choice is in her best interest,” Eomer said staggeringly, “I care for her a great deal, and if she decided to choose me as a husband, then I would be honored. I cannot imagine a greater joy.”

Why did people feel the need to stare when a conversation took an awkward turn? It only made him more self-conscious than he already was. He kept his own gaze locked with Lady Ivriniel, feeling as if tearing his gaze away would be an admission of weakness, as if it would be giving an opponent some measure of victory.

“I beg your pardon,” her gaze softened a little, and she chuckled a little, “Perhaps you find me too blunt and direct.”

“In truth,” Eomer said, “if I may speak candidly, I feel a little unnerved by courtly manners, and lofty speeches. I prefer direct speech. I think people should say what they mean.”

He wondered for a moment how well Ivriniel fit in to her family. She was more direct than the rest of them and seemed more willing to say things that people might not like. He wondered further, trying to sort out how she had stayed silent through Lothiriel’s entire life, as it did not seem to be her nature.

His eyes shifted to Lothiriel for a moment. She smiled a little apologetically at him for the bluntness of her aunt, and any discomfort that he was experiencing because of her family. She looked as embarrassed as he felt, her cheeks turning red as her aunt’s attentions swiveled to her.

“And what do you say?” Ivriniel asked, her brow raised a little.

“That it is a personal matter,” Lothiriel said, wishing she could sink through her chair and the floor and sink as far away from this conversation as was possible.

“Well, I should recommend you get used to discussing it, for your uncle will likely not be as polite in asking when he finds out. If he has not already…” Ivriniel quirked her brow as if asking her if she had even considered that.

Eomer frowned, not ready to consider what awaited them in Minas Tirith, “My lady, I would ask something of you, that you in turn may take offense with.”

“You have been kind enough to answer,” Ivriniel nodded “so ask, and I will decide if I take offense or not.”

“Were you in agreement with your brother when he sent Princess Lothiriel into Lord Denethor’s care?”

There was a change in the air around the table, not unlike the feeling in the air just before a lightning strike. He saw the quick glances between the family members before they all seemed to avert their eyes. It was strange that they would all gawk at him in his discomfort, but any discomfort to their own kin garnered such a focused lack of direct attention.

Lady Ivriniel sniffed a little, drinking some wine, “I was not in agreement, as you put it. It was my opinion that Lothiriel would have been better served by a sense of closeness with her own family,” she looked at Boromir a moment, “Not that you are not family, of course.”

“I know what you mean, Aunt,” Boromir nodded, making a careful study of his wine cup.

“Then why was she sent?” Eomer asked, “I cannot imagine you allowing some course of action that you disapprove of.”

“You mean to flatter me, and I will accept it, but I would remind you that you know little of our customs here, Your Majesty.”

Eomer could see the gate closing on any familiarity that he could have hoped for at this early state, “You are of course right,” he said, and knew he should have left it at that. He should have apologized for being imprudent, and for putting his nose where it might not belong, and let the conversation take a lighter path through the rest of their stay. That would have been the wise course. “It just seems to me that she has needlessly suffered, and I would hope to have some understanding as to what purpose there might have been.”

Lothiriel gave him a slow and careful look, begging him to stop asking uncomfortable questions.

“Have you complained of your treatment?” Lord Elphir asked, his tone a little barbed, “As far as we knew you were the darling of Uncle’s court. What a strange change in your opinions.”

Lothiriel let out a quick breath and forced a smile, “I have perhaps given some considerations to my relationship with our uncle and found that there were things that did not please me as well as I would have thought.”

“We had thought that in truth, it would be easier for her to make a good marriage in the capitol,” Ivriniel’s smile was rather like a wild beast baring its teeth, a half-truth given with a challenge that he could not quite make sense of.

“Then you sent a sixteen-year old girl to live with a man that you cannot abide as a way to accomplish this?” Eomer asked, the heat of his irritation coming on a little too quickly for him to check all the way. He could see Lothiriel squirming and shaking her head at him as Boromir made quick work of refilling both of their cups.

“I grant you it was not the best decision in hindsight.” Ivriniel stared back at him.

“But you did not approve in the first place. So why did you not tell your brother so?” Eomer could see the tension in Lady Ivriniel’s jaw and wondered if she was biting down on so many secrets and animosities that she could not be certain would be safe to utter.

Lothiriel drank down the contents of her cup and hadn’t set it down on the table before refilling it.

“Will all due respect, you have known my niece for a month and a half, you do not know any of us,” Ivriniel’s tone was so gentle that it was threatening, “and you have no idea what our lives are like,” she raised a hand at the sight of Eomer’s mouth opening to speak, “That is not a criticism. I like you. Your feelings seem genuine, and I appreciate that. I can see that you want to protect Lothiriel, and you are only asking to better understand. I can imagine that from the outside, our actions seem indefensible, and perhaps they are. We have made mistakes, but if you want to come here and ask hard questions, you should put the concept of easy answers from your mind.”

“I know it likely a complicated situation, but that does not mean that I do not want to understand,” Eomer said trying to check his temper.

Ivriniel settled back in her chair, studying him with a small smile, calculating an answer, “The easiest way to explain Imrahil’s decisions is as such. My brother felt that he had already failed her once and thought that he was doing the right thing by putting her in the care of someone that might be more attentive, and who might help her find a place for herself.”

“How did he fail her?”

“Has Lothiriel not told you about her governess, then?” Ivriniel’s brow raised, and she looked strangely pleased.

“Auntie, do not,” Lothiriel hissed under her breath in Sindarin, shooting a look at her aunt.

“What?” Ivriniel asked innocently in their language, “Are you keeping secrets? That is certainly not a good way to start a relationship.”

Lothiriel stared back at her for a moment before speaking again, “I am not keeping secrets, but I will tell him. But I would rather stop this infuriating conversation before you throw something.”

“I do not throw things,” Ivriniel snapped, before looking at her family, “Do I throw things?!”

The lack of answer for a few moments, and the serious looks of contemplation answered her question.

She threw a hand up. “Alright,” she took a breath, “enough of this weighty talk. The war is over, and we should not dwell on the past at present.”

Eomer bowed his head, “I am sorry for speaking out of turn. I beg your forgiveness, Lady Ivriniel.”

Lady Ivriniel smiled, “and I could have been more gracious. I can imagine how this all must look.” She took Lothiriel’s hand carefully in hers, looking almost as if she could cry. “We are going to sort this out. Of that you may be assured.”

He did not in fact feel a shred of remorse and would not. He had hoped… he wasn’t sure what he had hoped. Perhaps he had thought that Lady Ivriniel would say that the Steward had forced them to hand Lothiriel over, and that it was only out of a need to appear strong that Prince Imrahil had said it was by his own will. Thinking on it that was exactly what he had hoped for. She had not said that this was not the case, and it might have been in some fashion. Lady Ivriniel seemed to keep her thoughts to herself, and did at least seem as angry as Eomer did, but she would take no guilt from anyone else. He had hoped that these people who seemed good would not be so careless, and perhaps it had not been that either.

He had given a simple answer to the question he had been asked, and while he had not expected to be answered in simple terms, had expected an answer that would be better than the one he had been given.

At least there was some sense of remorse in this strange family, and there was something like an attempt at reconciliation, but it still raised his hackles a little.

0x0x0

She should really have stayed in her room, but everyone was already asleep, so there was no one to catch her. If they did, she would just tell them she was looking for the kitchen and got herself turned around.

She pulled her dressing robe a little tighter around herself, as she counted doors in the guest wing, hoping she had the right door before knocking. After a moment of no response, she was ready to turn and run back to her room before someone saw her.

The door opened and the look on Eomer’s face was almost worth her nerves. He peered over her head to ensure that no one had seen her, and he pulled her into his room.

“You should not be here,” he whispered, his voice tense.

“Why are you whispering?” Lothiriel asked, smiling at him, “We are in a closed room, not some corridor.”

He scowled at her, before speaking at a normal level, “What if someone saw you?”

“I was careful,” she leaned against him, wrapping her arms around his waist, “are you angry that I am here?”

“No,” he allowed, stroking her cheek, “I am certainly not.” Nervous he might be, a little.

She smiled up at him, “I have wanted to kiss you all day…” she watched him stoop his head before she went on, “… and then you started a fight with my aunt.”

He straightened back up, pulling away from her and letting out an irritated sigh, “So you came to scold me then?”

“I am doing my best to repair my relationship with my family, Eomer, I do not need any extra stress on that relationship at present,” she crossed her arms for a moment before picking up one of the fresh wine bottles from the sideboard. Fumbling with the bottle, she looked around for a cup and found none. She wondered who had been in charge of preparing the room, and if her aunt would have them flayed for the oversight.

“Why?”

“Why what?” she turned to look at him.

He leaned forward on the sofa, studying her, “Why are you trying to make amends with them? Should they not be the ones apologizing to you?”

“I have not always been the kindest person to them, either, you know.”

“You are the baby of the family, though. Your father, you know that I respect him, and I like him, but he sent you away, and gave up all claim to you, his daughter. Does that not enrage you at least a little?”

She bit back a response and drank from the bottle.

“Does it not?” he asked.

“It is not your place to ask me my feelings on my family, nor is it your place to lay judgement on them,” she snapped.

He tilted his head a fraction before nodding, his jaw shifting, checking ever response that naturally came to him. Did she want him to stand dumbly by as every other member of her acquaintance had at the sight of her being mistreated, or at the sight of those that had done so? She should know well enough by now that that was not something that his nature would allow.

“I do not mean to be harsh, but they are doing their best to rectify the mistakes they have made,” Lothiriel said, almost whining from the need for him to understand her.

“What else is there?” Eomer asked, his eyes narrowing, “What else have you not told me?”

She scoffed, “What do you want me to say? Do you want me to lay out every damn tragedy of my life to give you more kindling for your rage?”

“If there is something else that I should know, then yes.”

She rolled her eyes, “Well, once Amrothos broke one of my favorite toys. Aunt Ivriniel did not let us have second servings of desert… what else? I had a governess that beat me. My father did not spend enough time with us because of his duties. Oh, there was the time that Erchirion-”

“Stop,” he stood quickly, “Your governess…” Lady Ivriniel had mentioned that woman.

She deflated a little, “She was sent away eventually, after my father and aunt found out. They did not know, I swear it,” she grimaced, before she said it, “My uncle asked me if it was true, that Lady Neithariel was… that she was not being as kind as perhaps she ought to have been and I told him.” She did not mention that it was her opinion that her uncle had saved her. He had not always been the way that he was now. He had been kind once. He had hadn’t been possessive or controlling.

Eomer sorted that piece of information into a box for later explanation, because he was not ready to tackle the maelstrom of horse shit that her relationship with Denethor was, “Is that why you were sent to school?”

“I may have had some behavioral trouble,” she sniffed, sitting carefully in one of the chairs near him. She wanted to sit beside him but was still irritated that he hadn’t simply been polite.

“And I would wager your school mistresses took care to beat them out of you,” he scoffed back at her, imagining a school for the making of fine ladies as a large stone prison of a sort with comfortable beds.

Her pale eyes narrowed at him a little dangerously, “Discipline is an important value, or do you not think so?”

“I do, but…” he paused a moment, some whisp of a memory coming back to him, “do you… do you remember Theodred?”

“Yes,” she replied with a biting tone, “I was with him just before the attack if you care to recall.”

“No, I mean to ask if you met him when you were younger,” Eomer sat forward, watching her falter in her reply, “I have some vague memory of him being angry at the treatment of one of the Princesses of Gondor.”

She took another drink, giving herself a moment to think of how to answer. At a loss for words, she nodded carefully, “Yes. He was kind to me, from what little I can recall. I was only a small child at the time.” She did not want to tell him that her governess had likely told her terrifying stories about the Rohirrim to keep her from saying anything more than she had already.

“How old were you when you went to school?”

She shook her head, “It hardly matters.”

“Will I have to pry every dark secret out of you, then?” he smirked, trying to tease her a little, even as he felt the argument building between them.

“I would rather not give more reason for you to find your unbridled anger at my family right now,” she replied, “or else to find some other fault in me.”

He debated how to answer that for a long silent moment, “I do not dislike your family, and I am trying to the best of my ability to put aside the things you have told me when interacting with the elders of your kin.”

“They have not done anything to you, so I do not see how it matters to you one way or the other.” Her voice raised a little at him.

“Lothiriel, I understand wanting to have a relationship with your family. I would guess you have wanted that your entire life, but you do not owe them anything.”

Her eyes flashed with rage, she waved her hand at him, “You have no right speak to me of this matter!”

“I damn well will speak. Do you think that you can command me to be silent as if I were one of your pages?” Eomer demanded, standing up, “I understand pain, and I understand that everyone has things in their past that they would rather not dwell on. I have my own traumas and insecurities and have done my best to confide in you, only to be rewarded by you minimizing everything that you think I will not want to hear! Through all of those dark times in my life I at least had my family behind me. What have any of these people ever done for you?!” His breathing was coming out too hard, and if he had stopped for a moment, he might have realized that he could scare her, but he was angry, and tired of hiding it, “I do not want you to lie to me by omitting things that you think are … what? Do you think that you will tell me these things and I will forsake you as everyone else has?”

For a moment she looked as if he had hit her, stunned and wide-eyed and ready to burst into tears, or beat him to death.

He took a deep breath, trying to rein in his temper, and just make her understand that he was not going to leave her, that he did not hate her, or even her family in truth. He was just disappointed by it all, and disappointment soured his affection, “They should come to you on bended knees begging you to forgive them, not the other way around!” he said with as much care as he could, lowering his voice a little.

“You…” she scoffed, standing quickly, and glowering at him, “you have no idea what you are talking about!”

“I know what you have told me, and that seems enough!”

“This is why I do not want to tell you things!” she snapped, setting the bottle of wine down a little hard, “I want you to get on well with my family. I want them to approve of you, but if you are simply going to pick fights over things so far in the past, I have no idea how to make things work between us!”

Eomer was watching her carefully for a moment. He heard her words, but knew they were only given in anger, and that she likely did not mean them. If she meant them, she would have left by now. He had learned enough in his life that it was never a wise move to tell an angry woman that her anger rendered her attractive in some way, even if it was true. But it was more than that. Lothiriel was all but screaming at him, but it felt like a strange and sudden assurance that she was able to do so, that she felt comfortable enough in his presence to show her anger rather than hide it away.

“I am a grown woman,” she snapped, “and I can decide what I want without you needing to feel that you must fight every person that has ever slighted me! I would rather make peace with my family and have them in my life as far as I can than have you go an undo what little I have been able to take back!” She stared at him, waiting for an answer, her brow raised, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Eomer smiled, “I just realized that this is our first quarrel.”

She deflated, trying not to smile at him, “All I am asking is that you please, try to be more understanding of my family.”

“I will,” he sighed, “but I will admit that I would have thought you would be proud of my restraint at dinner.”

Her eyes widened, a quick bark of laughter leaving her, “That was restraint?!”

“Well, yes,” he smiled, “I answered her question, and she barely gave an answer to mine. She danced around the edge of answering, only setting a toe toward giving reasons for any part of those actions,” he looked at her, “Do you know?”

Her shoulders shifted, “I can think of some reasons, but I have never been given a confirmation of any of them. What my uncle says and what my aunt says are two different things,” she sighed, “Eomer, I do not want to fight with you.”

“Whyever not? You are certainly doing well at it,” he chuckled rubbing his brow, “I will _try_ to hold my tongue, if it please you that I do. But I cannot promise I will always succeed in that endeavor.”

“Why?” she whined again, “Not replying to something is among the easiest things in the world. You simply say nothing and walk away.” As if she had ever managed to walk away from an insult.

“I do not take insult easily, and I find it as hard to take insult to you,” he admitted, “I have told you that I want to protect you. I can hardly do that if I do not understand what threats there are, or why you have been treated in the way that you have.”

She sank down on the sofa a few feet from him, “It is not uncommon to send daughters to live with family members in the cities. And if such a well-placed family already lives in a city, the “done thing” is to send them to Minas Tirith,” she said, trying to soften her tone, “It is not seen as disposing of responsibility.”

“Do the parents normally pass over their rights of custody?” he asked, and at sight of her face knew the answer. He reached carefully to her, and took her hands in his, smoothing his thumbs over the back of her hands. “I will try.”

“That is all I am asking,” she said, squeezing his fingers, “We need my aunt’s help, and she is going to give it as far as she is able.”

Eomer looked at her, letting out a grunting affirmation, he appreciated the offered help, but he was still not certain of any of this. He did his best to smile, “May I kiss you now, or are you going to yell at me again?”

“I will not yell at you if you do not give me a reason to,” she smiled.

“Why do I suspect that will be harder than I think, not giving you a reason?” he teased, pushing some of her hair back from her face.

She leaned closer to him, rubbing the tip of her nose against his, and smoothing a few fingertips over his lips before grinning at him. She had never had a lover’s quarrel before, nor had she ever had a lover. She was not entirely certain how she was meant to make amends for yelling at him, still feeling her anger coiled deep in her chest. She still wanted to yell at him, and she wanted to smack at him, but at the same time, she wanted to tear his clothes off and press herself as close to him as she could manage.

His hands caught her face and pulled her lips to his, smiling a little as she slid closer to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck murmuring a little against his lips letting his hands move, exploringly over her back and her waist feeling the shape of her body through her robe and her nightgown as he pulled her close. She nipped at his lip experimentally, almost nervously before parting her lips a small measure to lick at his.

Those hands that could likely damn her if she let them, wandered over her body, slipping under her dressing gown and pressing against her nightgown. She shrugged out of the robe, tossing it aside without a thought and pulled him with her, not thinking her actions through. The feeling that she was coming to understand as desire was flooding her as his lips dragged sweet kisses against her throat. She felt as if she was burning, that tingling sensation spreading over her skin. She pulled him down as she lay back, wanting to feel his weight over her, pressing down on her just a little.

The quiet murmuring sounds would drive him mad, but he wanted to hear them as much as he wanted to see her face, flushed and glowing. He was careful not to crush her supporting his weight on his arms and diving gently back into claim her lips again. He should stop. He should sit back up, and hold her against his chest for a moment, then kiss the top of her head and send her back to her bed. He had fully intended to do that, but her thighs grip on his own and the languid movement of her hips threw his plan asunder, until she stopped moving suddenly.

He pulled back to look at her, the color high on her cheeks and the soft ragged sound of her breathing, and the slow way that she smiled up at him, twirling a lock of his hair around her finger.

“Are you alright?” he tilted her chin up to make her look at him.

“Yes,” she gave him a small smile, blushing harder, “though perhaps we should stop.”

“Do you want me to stop kissing you?”

“No, but,” she hesitated, not certain how to explain that she wanted more than that, and that she was already in a more compromised position that she had likely ever been. “But…” she shifted her hip a little against what she felt pressing against her leg.

“That is not answer,” he smirked, a brow raising at her mischievously, “I am not going to do anything that you do not want me to.”

“Nor will you do what I want,” she replied, with a catty smirk of her own.

Eomer looked at her, debating how to answer her, smoothing the back of his fingers over the side of her neck, down over her collar bone, taking a slow breath. The pink color had spread over her neck and her chest, what little he could see of it. He stroked the back of his fingers over the exposed skin, swallowing a little at the impression of her small breasts, her nipples pressing up against the thin fabric.

“What is it that you want?” her voice was shaking a little.

He hesitated for a moment, “I would ask that you not be angry with me, if I ask…” he looked at her carefully, nervously, her own anxiety hidden rather well, “if I might touch you.”

Lothiriel stared back at him, puzzled as he was touching her, and she was touching him. Perhaps he meant that he wanted to hold her hand, as they had not done that for more than a few moments earlier in the day, and he did seem to take some joy in that. There was something more significant in the question, she knew, and she felt self-conscious of the question. She nodded and held her arm up to him.

He hung his head for a moment, trying not to laugh, not wanting to embarrass her and her naivety, “No, I mean…” he smoothed his hand over her thigh gently sliding over her nightgown, trying his best not to feel the soft give of her thigh under his hand, “may I touch you.”

She looked startled, “Oh, well…”

“You can say no,” Eomer said quickly, lifting his hand, “it is your body, and you have control over what happens between us.” He smiled gently, “It is alright, Lothiriel.”

She chewed on her lip, “Would it hurt?”

“No, it should feel nice,” he said, smiling, “and if you were… examined, there would be nothing amiss.”

Weighing the options, she felt much less brave than she had a few moments before. When he kissed her, and when she felt his body pressed against her, she felt a strange lack of control over herself, and if he had nudged her nightgown down a little, she might have taken it off. Having to say what she wanted or giving him permission was harder. She understood that he was asking because it was something that they had never done, that no one had ever done, and that he did not want to rush her, or do something that she did not want.

“Perhaps,” she began carefully, “You might kiss me again, and I can decide if it feels right to do… that…?” She would not admit that she had already had daydreams that were far more scandalous than what he was asking.

His smile was warm, and he leaned back down to kiss her again, still gently, but a little less so, picking up where they had paused, his hand sliding back over her hip and squeezing just a little at the fleshiness he could feel.

It took her a moment longer to catch up to him, to stop her mind from moving as quickly as it was wont to do, but she let herself go, and let her body respond to his touch.

He grazed a thumb over her breast, trying not to smile at the small mews that she let out, and he tried not to smile as she pulled her nightgown slowly up her thigh, looking back at him.

No one had ever touched her legs, not since she had grown up, and she tried not to flinch away from the light trail of his fingers skimmed over her thigh. At a certain point she failed, recoiling a little and giggling. She blushed, “That tickles,” she said apologetically.

He smiled, “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” she admitted, the word leaving her slowly, pulling him back down to her lips, not wanting him to see her hesitation or embarrassment.

Logically, she knew that she should not feel any shame, but still, she blushed crimson when his fingers found the part of her that was the most secret, caressing over the nub at her center. She tried to relax and let herself feel what he was doing to her and stop analyzing everything for a moment.

It started as a small thing, something that she could not quite name, a small fluttering sensation in her belly, no it was below her belly, and it was spreading through her like an infection, a fever burning her through.

“Do you trust me?” Eomer’s voice asked next her ear, his breath tickling her neck.

Her affirmation wasn’t a word but a low guttural sound that felt ripped out of her chest. She could feel him smiling as he kissed the side of her neck, and she felt his hand shift, his thumb keeping the slow gentle movements against the pearl of her sex and slipping a finger into her, just a little at her opening, but moving no further, stroking carefully at her. 

She dug her nails into the back of his tunic, whimpering a little when she felt herself sliding into oblivion, a nasally keening sound pressing slowly out of her until that sound ended in a crescendo that made her cover her mouth, trying to quiet herself a little.

Eomer stopped and smiled at her, shifting his weight onto one arm as he looked her over, sweating, giggling, blushing and beautiful. Looking at her, reduced to this state made him feel more than a little proud. He thought about licking his fingers, but stopped himself from doing so, thinking that she would find it appalling, and wiped his hand quickly on his linen trousers, trying not to think about how wet she was.

She covered her face with her hands, as if she was embarrassed that he was looking at her.

He pulled her nightgown down over her knees before taking one of her hands from her face, and peering at her, “Darling…”

“Does it always feel that way?” she asked, blushing and squirming to hide her face against his arm.

“It should,” he stroked his fingers through her hair, “are you alright?”

She murmured, “yes. That was very nice. Thank you.”

Eomer tried not to laugh at the way she was speaking to him, as if he had just served her a pleasant lunch, he kept stroking her hair gently, not sure what else to say but, “You are most welcome.”

She shifted a little to sit up, moving slowly, “I should return the gesture?”

“No,” he smiled at her, “I just wanted to give you some pleasure.”

“I know that there are things that I can do besides,” she gestured vaguely, “giving you myself.”

He smirked, wanting to know what she thought to do, and watched her for a moment, waiting for her to expound on her statement of understanding.

“I can use my mouth,” she blushed, not looking at him.

“It is alright,” he tried not to laugh at the way she said it, as if she was telling him that she could organize his ledgers. He wondered where she would have heard of such things, but decided against asking, and settled back in the chaise, “Just come here a moment, and let me hold you.”

She stared at him, confused, “But…”

“I only want to hold you,” he smiled, shifting his arms to accommodate her.

“You are a strange man,” she said quietly, nestling beside him, trying to calm herself a little. She still felt strange, but peaceful in a way.

He kissed the top of her head, wrapping his arms around her, not answering her words.

“Do you…?” she began, looking up at him significantly, her brow furrowed a little. His only answer was the patient look on his face, “Do that... to yourself?”

There was a low chuckle that rumbled in his chest, “Yes. Do you?”

“I… have touched there, but…” she blushed again, “no. Do not look at me like that.”

“How am I looking at you?”

“As if I am sweet and stupid.”

His brow dropped, “I do not think you are stupid, but I do think that you should be allowed to enjoy yourself a little.”

A warm thrill went through her, and she looked away, leaning back against his chest, not sure how to answer his assertion. She took his hand where it rested over her chest and kissed the back of it.

“Do you feel embarrassed?” Eomer asked, feeling an overwhelming concern that she would regret what he had done, and regret letting him do it.

“Perhaps a little,” she said, “but I liked it. In truth, I might ask you to do that again.”

He could see the blush coming back to her cheeks again and smiled, “Have I created an insatiable monster?”

“Do not make a joke,” she said, trying not to laugh and failing as she rested her head back against his shoulder. “I should go back to my room.”

Eomer’s smile was bittersweet, “Can I ask you for one last thing?”

She turned, moving from his embrace, and looked at him, “I suppose you can ask.”

He stood up slowly, and took her hand, “Before I ask, I know it is rather foolish, but would you just lie next to me in bed for a moment?”

She pressed her hand over her mouth to stop the laughter. It was such a strange request that she did not know what to say.

“As ever, you can say no,” Eomer looked down at his feet, feeling certain that she was going to think that he was a fool.

Smiling, she noticed that he was blushing, and it was strange still that he was embarrassed less by the things that he might do than the thought that someone might laugh at him. “Only a few minutes,” she smiled at him, taking his hand and getting to her feet, “and you mustn’t let me fall asleep.”

He watched her go through to the bedroom and climb up over the rumpled coverlet.

“I woke you,” she said as if she had forgotten the reason she had come at this hour.

“No,” he smiled, “I was lying in bed, and trying to sleep, but it eluded me.” He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment before laying down beside her, his arm folded under his pillow.

She looked back at him, smiling a little, reaching over to touch his cheek, and his eyes slid shut, savoring the touch.

He wished she could stay with him, that he could take her back to Edoras with him, and never let anyone else hurt her. He wished that she could leave all of this behind, and make a new life with him, and that they could have these moments whenever they wanted without needing to hide or sneak around like thieves. He opened his eyes and took in the sight of her head on a pillow beside him, her hair a little messy and her hand on the pillow by her face, trying to memorize every detail, down to the patterns of her freckles.

That thrummed swelling sensation in his chest came back on as it had before so many times. That feeling was coming on more and more frequently, and he wanted to feel it again and again.

0x0x0

She watched the Princess leaving the guest room and pulled herself back into the shadows at the other end of the hall, watching her hurry along, barefoot and holding her dressing gown closed.

There were two different parties that would want to hear about this, but the Lord Steward would pay better than Lady Ivriniel, and he might be less imperious about her station.

Anthel wondered if he would pay her enough that she would be able to leave service all together.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, guys. This one is gonna be a little rough.

“You look rather like the cat that got the cream,” Gadrien said, smirking at her husband’s sister and her blushing face at the statement. They had been riding all day, and Gadrien personally wanted little more than to simply get to Minas Tirith and a hot bath. She was not one for sleeping in a camp, even if their travel accommodations were more comfortable than most people would have.

“Do I?” Lothiriel asked, innocently.

“Whatever is the secret you are keeping?”

Lothiriel shrugged, “I have no secret.”

“No?” Gadrien smiled, tilting her head a little before turning her attention back to where her children were playing with their father and the Rohirrim, her children running between them and screaming. The King tossed her daughter in the air and was rewarded with demands of the actions repetition, “Your barbarian seems kindly enough.”

“He is not a barbarian,” Lothiriel scoffed, pulling out an embroidery stitch that she had made a mess of. Her family was fond of telling people that she was accomplished, but she was not as skilled with the stitched art as she ought to have been.

“I know,” Gadrien simpered, “but you had best be prepared for that sort of opinion. If you end up deciding that you want to marry him, there might be some people with certain opinions about his folk, and they might not be quiet about it.”

“I do not know that it is anyone else’s business,” Lothiriel began before stopping herself, “I know, politics, and diplomacy. That part of it, I understand, but if I agree to a marriage, should everyone else not simply accept it?”

Gadrien looked at her sympathetically, “You know that is not how anything ever is. When I was married, there was still gossip. I had people saying that we were marrying because I was already with child, that my father had bribed yours, so many different rumors. Your case, if this is what you decide is going to be a mess, and you know it.”

“What would you advise?”

“Keep your composure. If there is any gossip of impropriety, simply submit to another examination, and then that would silence any naysayers.”

“Unless they want to say that we bribed the midwife,” Lothiriel smirked, looking sideways at Boromir, “You have been uncommonly quiet.”

Boromir shrugged and opened his mouth to speak.

“Mithriel!” Gadrien yelled, staring at her daughter, halfway up a tree, and stood, hurrying over, “You get down from there this moment, young lady!”

“Well?” Lothiriel asked, as soon as Gadrien was on her way from them.

Boromir waited a moment before turning a knowing look on her, “How was he?”

“Pardon?” Lothiriel felt cold suddenly.

“I suppose I should ask if you are intact, but I doubt either of you are that stupid,” Boromir smirked, leaning closer to her, “My dear cousin, you are positively glowing, and a specific type of glowing. I would ask if you had found some new lotion for your skin, but I fear such a question in this circumstance would such a question would be a rather vulgar joke.”

Lothiriel swatted him, “Keep your voice down!”

Boromir grinned at her, a wide even smile, “ah,” he pinched her cheek, “my sweet girl, are you not the sweetest thing?”

Pulling free, Lothiriel scowled back at him, “I would ask you to hold your tongue, but I wonder if you can manage it.”

The feeling hit her suddenly and she winced. The first few cramps had come in the morning and she had hoped that it was indigestion. Her courses had never been regular, making her customary seclusions difficult to plan. It could not have come at a more awkward time.

“I dare not ask what happened between you,” he smiled, “for that is personal, and you are as a sister to me, but I would hope that you enjoyed whatever it was that occurred.”

She rolled her eyes, trying to stand, “May we please not discuss it further?”

He looked at her, watching her irritably self-conscious face and smiled, “As you bid, dear cousin. Know that I do not judge you,” he beamed, “You needn’t be so testy with me.”

“It is not that,” she muttered, starting back to her tent, before putting some significance into her words, “I must withdraw. Will you find Anthel and tell her that she might fetch some things for me, please?”

“Oh,” Boromir blanched, “Oh, well, yes… alright. We will sort out a space in the cart for you, so that you can ride there in the morning rather than riding.”

“Thank you,” Lothiriel went to her tent with purpose, folding the flaps of her tent carefully so that they overlapped, hiding her from the outside world.

She kneeled by her bedroll and pulled her skirts up to check herself. Her shift was stained, but she could not tell if her kirtle or her dress was. She grumbled to herself irritably and waited for her maid to come.

Eomer had watched her walk quickly away from where he was playing with the children, and he set Elphir’s son, Alphros, back on his feet, tousling the boy’s hair without thinking about it. He looked quizzically at Boromir who shook his head and went to speak with the handmaid a moment before approaching him and the brothers.

“Lothiriel is going to ride in the cart,” Boromir said carefully.

“Is she alright?” Eomer asked.

“She is simply having women’s troubles,” Boromir smiled, making a face as if he did not envy her.

Eomer understood women’s courses and was sympathetic. Depending on the way her body reacted to his natural cycle, she might be tired, or have a headache. He had wanted to see if he might speak to her but did not want to bother her if she was indisposed. He would try to find time to speak to her before leaving Minas Tirith. He would stay for perhaps a week for the peace banqueting and then take his uncle home and go through some of the initial ceremonials to assume kingship, and then return for Aragorn’s coronation.

He was beginning to get his own headache at the thought of all of the running that he was going to need to do, and then all of the work that he would need to do when he returned against to Edoras for his coronation. It would be a simple event, and perhaps a grander ceremony later.

Eothain had been smirking at him all day, and the moment Lothiriel’s family members started over to eat their supper, Eomer turned to his friend.

“What?” Eomer asked, “Why do you look so smug?”

“Only that Her Highness seemed to be a very pleasant before she withdrew to rest,” Eothain grinned, “I only thought that perhaps she seemed…”

Eomer narrowed his eyes, “Do not start.”

“I would never insinuate that there was any sort of impropriety,” Eothain said, with a mocking wide-eyed innocence, before laughing.

“We did not do whatever you think we did,” Eomer grumbled, “And we should even think of discussing this where her family might hear.”

Eothain threw a quick and defensive hand up, laughing, “As you bid, my lord.”

0x0x0

When they came into the city, he watched Lothiriel climb from the back of the cart with all the grace of a princess, her veil pulled over her face, which to him confirmed that she likely suffered from headaches during her courses. He did his best to remind himself of that as she went into the citadel without speaking with anyone, her handmaid close at her heels.

There were so many things to do, and he had to stop worrying about Lothiriel to the best of his ability, weak though that ability was. It was strange to be in the same place as her and not be able to see her, and he had thought that he would become more comfortable with it, but it was the opposite. The longer he knew her, the less he liked being parted from her, and the need to put on the face of indifference for the benefit of these people.

He should not have dwelled on it as long as he did, following Gamling through to Lord Faramir’s rooms where the aforementioned lord and his sister sat, sorting sheets of parchments while Lord Elfhelm stood by and stacked them in a leather folio.

Eowyn grinned at the sight of him and came running over to throw her arms around him, “Oh, you are safe! And you smell.”

“Thank you,” Eomer smiled back, pushing his sister’s shoulder, “I came straight away.”

“You should have washed first,” she teased him, going back to her papers, “You remember Lord Faramir.”

“Of course, thank you for all of your help, my lord,” Eomer clasped Faramir’s forearm before he could bow. “I am certain my sister would have made little progress without your help.”

“You should be far kinder,” Eowyn snapped at him, raising a brow, “We needed your Patent of Nobility, so I sent Gamling to your house at Aldburg to collect it. Do you know what Halfred told him when he asked to have it brought?”

Eomer winced, almost certain he knew what the steward of his house had said.

“He said he was not entirely certain where it was, but that they were likely in your study.” Eowyn crossed her arms, staring at him as if he was a careless child.

“Well, I have hardly ever needed it, have I?” Eomer asked, “And I fail to see why I need it now. It should be in the chest under the window in my study.”

“It was,” Eowyn picked the Patent up, “and I do not dare to ask whatever was in that chest, for Gamling could not tell for laughing and embarrassment.”

Eomer followed her gaze to Gamling who shook his head, trying not to smile.

“Well, if it is any consolation, I have no idea what is even in there, so,” Eomer thought a moment. He had not been to Aldburg in a year. The city was for the most part self-sufficient, the farms gave a good enough yield that besides some supervisory reports and papers brought to him at Edoras, he had been able to leave most of the running of the estate in the hands of his stewards during the war, and while he was helping his uncle, or trying to. He could not remember the last time he had even opened that chest, using it more often as a window seat than for actual storage. He had tossed his Patent in there when he was sixteen, and he had just received the updated version with his title on it. “Oh,” he said suddenly remember a few other things he had tossed in there to hide from the nosy gazes of his guardians, looking at Gamling, who burst out laughing.

“I am not going to ask,” Eowyn cut him short before he could apologize for the filth that he had hoarded as an adolescent.

He made a note to himself to get rid of all of the pictures before he married, and risked his wife finding them. He settled into a chair beside Eowyn, looking over the pages, “I do not see why I should need the damn thing anyway. I am a King, should that not be enough.”

“Typically, yes,” Lord Faramir said kindly, “but as you are a foreigner, king or no, there are extra steps that must be taken. You need to prove noble birth on both sides of the family for at least six generations.”

“My mother was sister of the king, my grandfather was Thengel, his father was Fengel, his father was Folcwine,” Eomer began to recite as if it was a reflex beaten into him by tutors, but he stopped short, “I always forget Folcwine’s father…”

“Folca,” Eowyn said, exasperated, “You do not need to recite our entire line, Eomer. That is the entire point of having this document!” she waved his Patent in front of his face.

“I feel terribly for having put you out,” Eomer said diplomatically, “What else do we need?”

“I think we have everything in hand,” Lord Faramir shifted a few pages and handed the stack over to Eomer, “If you could review this and ensure that it is accurate to the best of your knowledge.”

“What is it?” Eomer read through the first line, “Have you listed out everything that I own?!”

“A list of primary assets is usually required,” Lord Faramir smiled, sympathetically, “Anything that would be considered to be of ‘substantial value’ owned in your own name, to ensure that you are able to provide for your requested bride.”

“Well, I own a country now, so put that at the top,” Eomer grumbled, turning a page over, “For the record, if you wished to marry my sister, I do not require any paperwork.”

Eowyn kicked him under the table and glared at him.

“I apologize,” he muttered, grimacing, “I have been doing that quite a bit lately.”

“Did you not enjoy your stay in Dol Amroth?” Eowyn asked, confused.

“I did,” Eomer glanced at Lord Faramir, “Your uncle has a lovely home. But I might have irritated your aunt a little.”

Lord Faramir’s eyes widened in horror, “What did you do?”

That had not been the reaction Eomer had expected, “I asked if she had agreed with Imrahil in giving Lothiriel to your father.”

His eyes remained wide, but he grinned, “Oh, no… what did she say?”

“She barely answered, simply saying that Imrahil felt that he had failed Lothiriel and that your father might be a better guardian for her.”

There was a shake of Lord Faramir’s head as he looked back to his pages, “Um, so there is also the matter of negotiating a marriage contract. It would behoove of you to arrange any requests that you would like to have considered.”

“Such as?”

“If there was a time period that you wanted to put in place for annulment in the instance of the failure to produce an heir,” Lard Faramir offered, “Length of betrothal… uh… you might want to have some thought put to Lothiriel’s dowry.”

“Is it necessary?” Eomer asked, his brow dropping, “In truth I find the idea rather repulsive.”

Lord Faramir looked up, startled, “In what way?”

“In the simplest way. I do not feel entirely comfortable purchasing a wife.”

Lord Elfhelm nodded his agreement.

“You…” Lord Faramir looked around the room at the Eorlingas, confused, “In Rohan, how does a dowry work?”

“We do not in truth have such things. In some cases where the bride in needed in a family’s business or farm, then the bride-price is paid to help with the loss of labor,” Eowyn said, “more often brides are given a morning gift the day after the wedding, usually a piece of land that they keep in case of a disillusion of the marriage of the death of her husband.”

“Well that is…” Lord Faramir stared at her, “That is not what is done here,” he cleared his throat, “Lothiriel’s dowry would be in the form of gold, and it would be paid to you, Your Majesty.”

Not one of them said a word for a long moment.

Lord Elfhelm broke the silence, “So, in Gondor, a man takes a wife, and is then paid for the pleasure?”

“In effect, yes,” Lord Faramir rubbed at his brow, “so perhaps that is not so crucial in negotiations…” he flipped through the pages of a book of law dealing with marriage and contract making. “There is also the matter of your bedsheets.”

“Must they be listed with my assets?” Eomer asked, placing his fingertip on the line he had last read on that list to keep his place.

“No, I meant to ask if taking the bedsheets after the wedding was a custom in Rohan as well,” Faramir did his best not to blush and felt himself failing.

“Why?” Eomer asked, “Do you not have enough bed linens here? Or is it meant to be kept as some piece of history?”

Lord Faramir’s mouth opened and closed as he tried to think of the best way to answer that. He looked to Eowyn, almost begging her to have the answer but she looked as intrigued as her brother did.

Behind Eomer’s back, Gamling and Eothain played three quick rounds of stone, parchment, blade to decide who would say it. Having lost, Eothain grimaced and took a breath.

“I think, sire, they mean to ensure consummation,” Eothain said as carefully as he could manage it, he saw Eomer turning to look at him, and the look on his face and he quickly added, “for legal purposes.”

“No,” Eomer said, “It is not anyone’s business what happens between a man and his wife.”

“While I agree,” Lord Faramir said carefully, “In this case, as a political marriage, it might be necessary to a certain degree. And there is the matter of Lothiriel’s reputation.”

Eomer scowled, “What of her reputation?”

“Well, she is a maiden, and typically, that is assured by the taking of the bedsheets,” Lord Faramir frowned, “but if you mean to refuse the tradition, you can make the argument that you see it as a personal insult.”

Eomer nodded slowly, “How would the bedsheets confirm that Lothiriel is a maiden?”

“What I would give to have someone else to explain these things!” Lord Faramir laughed, “Where is my brother when he is needed?” He took a breath, “Well, sometimes, when a woman goes to bed with a man the first time, there is some blood. Not always, I grant you, but it is a thing that is expected.”

Every eye was burning an accompanying hole into his face, and Faramir did his best to keep his face blank.

“Do your people expect that I will hurt Lothiriel?” Eomer asked.

“No, that is not what I am saying,” Lord Faramir said, feeling ready to throw himself through the window to end this conversation, and perhaps send someone else to explain this better than he could.

“Then what is it that you are saying?” Eomer asked, not realizing that he had raised his voice.

“Eomer, do not yell at Faramir. He is only explaining something that is apparently common in this country,” Eowyn said back at him, “And he has already said that if you do not like it then it can be negotiated.”

Eomer leaned back, “I have never heard of such a thing. Did you bleed?”

“I did not,” Eowyn narrowed her eyes at him, “but that is not the point…” she studied him for a moment, something clicking in place in her mind, and she tilted her head a little. What if Eomer did not want the sheets taken because Lothiriel was no longer a maiden?

“No,” Eomer, said quickly and definitively, reading her look.

“Fine,” Eowyn smirked back, “Read that list, and let us know if anything else is missing, and we can go through the rest of these papers.”

“I was able to get you a petitioning audience with the king,” Lord Faramir said, smiling apologetically, “however, Imrahil will also be there, and, so will my father.”

Eomer scowled, letting out a disgusted groan, “Might I avoid the Steward a while longer?”

“Believe me, I understand the sentiment,” Lord Faramir said.

There was a look between Lord Faramir and Eowyn that seemed sad in a way, but that Eomer could not quite decipher. He wondered what he had missed. He knew that there was a tender affection between them, and he did feel a bit of regret at wanting to start a fight with Lord Faramir. He seemed like a good man and seemed to hate having to discuss the disconcerting matter of the bedsheets.

“Thank you,” Eomer smiled, “for doing all of this. I owe you my happiness.”

“Promise me you will be kind to my little cousin, and we shall be even,” Lord Faramir smiled.

0x0x0

Anthel stood before the Steward’s desk in his study, watching him as he stared out through the window, not saying anything for a long moment. Normally she told him some secret and he would nod, congratulate her on her good work, and toss her a few coins. This reaction startled her a little, and she wondered if it would not have been better to pass the information to Lady Ivriniel after all. Perhaps she could tell them both and make a profit from the both.

No, she could not go to Lady Ivriniel now, she would eventually have to confess to spying for Lord Denethor as well.

“Do you know what occurred between them?” Lord Denethor asked, not turning.

“At first I heard them quarrelling, and then after a time of silence, I heard something else,” Anthel said, carefully. She quirked a brow at him when he finally looked back at her.

“Your paltry attempt at coyness is out of character, and it suits you poorly,” Lord Denethor spat, “if you mean to have me guess at things, I would do better to seek out some fortune teller to have answer.”

“It sounded to be cries of ecstasy, my lord,” Anthel said, smirking maliciously.

There was no change in Lord Denethor’s face, or in his eyes. There was only the cold stony countenance of a calculating man, “Is that all you have?”

“I beg your pardon, my lord?”

“All you have to tell me is what you think you heard?” Denethor sat, taking out a coin box and counted out three gold coins and tossed them to her, “I thank you for your service, and your discretion.”

Anthel left the office not certain what to make of Lord Denethor’s disinterest, and the small sum. It was in truth more than she would make in three months of work, but she had expected more. Had someone else beat her in the race to give the Steward the information? If someone had, then he would not have paid her at all. She went to fetch Lothiriel the Gulnar Tea that she was meaning to get for her mistress.

0x0x0

Eomer, freshly washed and dressed in clean clothes walked through the garden, picking a few of the flower to send to Lothiriel’s chambers. He picked a variety of the yellow ones, knowing little about flowers, but thinking that they each looked rather like the sun.

“What are you doing?” Amrothos called, he and Erchirion approaching him.

“I thought your sister might like these,” Eomer smiled in a self-deprecating way, “Have I done wrong, do you think?”

“Well… this is the King’s Garden,” Amrothos said, gravely, “and there is the penalty of death on any who disrupt the growing things herein.”

Eomer’s eyes widened, “I did not know. I swear-” he caught sight of the brother’s faces and rolled his eyes, “Oh get the pair of you gone before I thrash you.” He looked down at his flowers, still not certain that he had done right.

“She will love them,” Erchirion said, grinning, “Amrothos, take them up, please.”

The younger scowled and took them, bowing his head, and Eomer hoped he would take them to Lothiriel rather than tossing them by the side.

“You’ll not like it, but you ought to have asked Boromir for help,” Erchirion teased, “he is the best with flowers.”

“Another jest?” Eomer asked, “I thought we were quite through with such things.”

“I swear!” Erchirion laughed, “You would not think it to see him, but the man loves flowers and loves arranging them. Whenever there is a wedding, he makes himself a nuisance with the flowers.”

Eomer smiled, still waiting for a sign that Erchirion was lying, but he found no such things.

“Why did you pick the yellow ones?” Erchirion asked, “Is it some custom in your country?”

“I think yellow is Lothiriel’s favorite,” Eomer said, a little awkwardly, “She does not wear the color much, but she looks at it the most when it is around her.”

Erchirion smiled a little, surprised. He did not know what his sister’s favorite color was, but at least Eomer was trying. It was rather sweet, even if Eomer seemed embarrassed by it, as if someone would laugh at him for being in love.

“There is something I wanted to ask of you,” Eomer said, “but I would ask that you not mock me.”

“I will not,” Erchirion said, steeling himself, “I swear!” he reiterated at the look that Eomer gave him.

He took a breath, hesitating, “Will you teach me to dance?”

Erchirion tried to keep his promise, and for his surprise managed not to laugh. It was sweet, in a strange sort of way. 

“I never learned beyond a few simple steps, and some circle dances,” Eomer went on, not looking at Erchirion, “I always felt too clumsy.”

“Alright,” Erchirion said, “let us begin.”

0x0x0

Lothiriel lay in her darkened bedchamber with a warm washing cloth over her forehead to fight the splitting headache that pounded behind her eyes. She would be staying in this room for the next four or five days. She had not had a headache this bad in months.

She hoped that she would not leave her seclusion and find that Eomer had already left. Her aunt might come and visit later but feared it.

“Your Highness,” Anthel’s voice was soft by the side of her bed, “I have your tea. It should help with the pain in your belly.”

“Thank you,” Lothiriel took the cloth from her eyes, and did her best to sit up, reaching for the saucer.

“I will fetch a fresh cloth for your head, Your Highness,” Anthel took the cloth, curtsied and left, almost running into Lady Ivriniel, who smiled politely at her as she passed her in the door.

“How are you feeling, darling?” Ivriniel asked, setting the vase of flowers by the bed.

“Not as dreadful as it could be,” Lothiriel smiled, adjusting the pillow under her hips, and smiled at the flowers, a bit simple for her aunt’s tastes, but it was the gesture, “Thank you, Auntie, they are lovely.”

“They are not from me,” Ivriniel smiled, looking over her shoulder a moment, “Your Rohir,” she whispered, “he picked them himself.”

Lothiriel smiled, leaning over the dahlias, tulips and marigolds, all yellow and bright. She skimmed a finger over a marigold’s petals. She wondered if she or someone else had told him how much she liked the color, or if he had figured it out for himself.

“It would seem that he is trying to learn to dance,” Ivriniel smiled, knowingly.

“What?” Lothiriel laughed, pressing her hand to her temple.

“He is out in the garden with Erchirion, Boromir and a few of the strangers and is becoming rather frustrated I think.” Ivriniel jerked her head to the window as if to tell her to see for herself.

Lothiriel got out of bed slowly, wincing at the spinning in her head, and the way the light stabbed into her eyes when she moved the curtains to look. After a moment she found herself smiling in spite of her discomfort as Prince Legolas prodded his leg with a stick, to make the point that he was not moving properly. Eomer rounded irritably but took her brother’s hand again as one of the halflings, she could not tell which one from this distance, said something and the group of them laughed. She doubted that Eomer had wanted so many witnesses and wondered if they had all stumbled out piece by piece having seen through a window or if one had seen and gone to collect the rest.

“The poor man,” Lothiriel chuckled, climbing back into bed, and laying back, trying not to groan.

“I will tell Anthel to bring a warming pan for you,” Ivriniel said gently as Lothiriel squeezed her eyes closed against the hammering in her skull. She pulled the coverlet over her niece, and smooth a hand over her hair gently, wishing she had been able to do more for her. She could have done more. She could have screamed and demanded that Imrahil listen to sense, but she had warned him in her normal calm but firm way, and he had disregarded her.

Anthel stood in the doorway and cleared her throat gently.

Ivriniel took the tray with the hot cloth on it and smiled, “Would you be so kind as to bring a warming pan for the princess’s cramps?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Anthel curtsied and went from the chambers.

She put the hot cloth over Lothiriel’s brow carefully, humming gently to her as she resumed smoothing her hand over Lothiriel’s hair.

Her niece really was a sweet girl, when she was of the persuasion to be, and Ivriniel wondered if even one thing had been different, if things might have been better. She had wanted to be angrier with King Eomer for asking personal questions of their family, but she understood why he did it. Lothiriel deserved someone that would take care of her, and who would ask such questions, and who would protect her. She deserved a man who would be angry at her mistreatment.

Lothiriel shifted a little and rested her head against Ivriniel’s stomach, murmuring a little, and holding the cloth against her forehead. Most of the people with Numenorean blood were taller than average, but Lothiriel was a little thing, just five foot even. Ivriniel started her humming again and tried not to think of her niece as small, and young.

Ivriniel’s heart already hurt enough. She wished she had been more maternal to her niece. She had always treated her nephews as her own sons, and she should have treated Lothiriel as a daughter.

0x0x0

Eomer was disappointed that Lothiriel did not come to dinner but consoled himself that she was likely not feeling up to company, and he envied her only that she had a reason to avoid it. The highlight of the evening in Eomer’s opinion was watching Lady Ivriniel and Lord Denethor interact. Lady Ivriniel had claimed weariness from riding and had breezed past the Steward and his open arms, dropping into an elegant curtsy before Aragorn and saying a few words, outright ignoring her late-sister’s husband.

Lord Denethor had tried to take a seat by Lady Ivriniel only to have her turn her head look him in the eye and said, “I do not enjoy your company. Might you not go find someone else to irritate.”

Eomer watched with fascination as Lord Denethor laughed.

“Oh, sister, you always say the most amusing things,” Lord Denethor slammed a hand on the table, still laughing.

Lady Ivriniel made a pointed effort to speak with the people on her other side to avoid having to speak to Lord Denethor, for all the good it did. At one point, Eomer heard her change an opinion simply because Lord Denethor had agreed with her.

At one point, Lady Ivriniel’s eyes locked with Eomer’s and he felt a sense of relief in the small nod she gave him.

0x0x0

The papers were organized to Lord Faramir’s recommendation, and he assured Eomer that he knew the way that his father’s mind worked, and how to present the papers to his father’s specifications.

Aragorn had given the pages a cursory look, at least appearing to look at each page, but clearly was a little surprised by the amount of paper that was set in front of him.

Eomer stood, his hands clenched behind his back, and trying not to glower at the look at Lord Denethor directed at him, cold and piercing, continuing to shoot that hateful look even as he read through the documents. It took an eternity for Lord Denethor to manage reading through all of it and still glare at Eomer.

The expectation was that the documents would be reviewed later, and that this meeting was simply a formality, and Eomer was becoming more and more uncomfortable standing silently as Lothiriel’s uncle looked through the pages, only letting Imrahil look at them when he was finished with each sheet.

He kept reminding himself that he was King of Rohan, and he should not scream at the Steward of a neighboring country, no matter how much he wanted to. He could not smack Lord Denethor’s head until he stopped being so dreadful.

Lothiriel had asked him to be understanding, and to not start fights with her family, and he had promised to try. He wanted to keep his promise, he truly did. He was a man of his word, and he hated going back on it, but this situation was trying his patience.

“We shall give this the consideration it is due,” Lord Denethor said, finally, with his hard smile.

“When might I expect an answer, my lord?” Eomer did his best to smile in return.

“I, for one, see no reason not to approve,” Aragorn said.

“There are many complicated facets of this to consider, sire,” Lord Denethor replied, pulling Eomer’s Patent out and looking it over again, with a sniff before holding to out, “If you do not mind, I would like to review the rest of these documents more carefully, but I assume that you need this.”

“Point of fact, I do not,” Eomer said before he remembered himself, “As I am King of Rohan, if I need another, I can have one made.”

“Indeed,” Lord Denethor replied, dropping the page back, “Will there be anything else I can do for you?”

“No,” Eomer said, “But I would ask the King, who is not yourself, my lord, to consider the benefits of this marriage.”

“Those being?” Lord Denethor asked before Aragorn could open his mouth.

“It would certainly reinforce the alliance between our two countries,” Eomer began, flying through words by the seat of his pants, having not given those points the thought that he should have.

“So you would have me martyr my niece to politics,” Lord Denethor asked, laughing, “and trap her in a strange country with a strange man who I do not know, and were not for a number of bizarre twists of fate would be no better than a farmer? A very successful one, but,” Lord Denethor’s face pickled and he shook his head, “That is a fate I can hardly consider lightly.”

“You would have martyred your niece to your own fear of loneliness,” Eomer snarled back.

“I beg your pardon?”

Aragorn’s eyes widened for a moment before he settled back into his seat, resigned to whatever was going to happen, looking over at Prince Imrahil, behind Lord Denethor’s back, bur the Prince did not seem particularly alarmed.

“I do not give it,” Eomer replied, “You would have Princess Lothiriel marry your son, and I grant you Lord Boromir is a good man, but you might think to give her some choice in her own marriage.”

“And you think she would choose _you_?” Lord Denethor asked before laughing, “You think a princess from one of the wealthiest principalities in the country would choose to live in a stable?”

“Better to live in a stable that a prison.”

Aragorn sat forward, “My friend, we will consider your proposal carefully, you have my word.”

Eomer took a shaking breath, trying to control himself, and bowed quickly storming from the hall and wanting to break something. He still had not seen Lothiriel and wondered if there was something about returning to the city that made her go to her rooms. Going to her rooms and asking for her company felt like something that he was not allowed to do, the memory of his faux pas in Dol Amroth served as a proof of that. He just wished that he could see her.

0x0x0

The request was not a request but an order, and it was so strange. Lothiriel could not understand what was so pressing to call her from her seclusion, but she told Anthel to fetch Lord Boromir to her while she dressed. She pulled on a dark kirtle and pulled a veil over her face as Boromir knocked to let her know that he was there.

She peered at him through the sheer darkness, feeling as though she was seeing everything though shadows. No one saw them, and thanks be for that, as there might have been a fair bit of gossip. She walked behind Boromir, nervously, not sure that she wanted to know what was waiting for her.

In the study, Denethor sat, hunched over his desk, a decanter of wine open and a cup at his elbow. His head jerked up when they came in and he gestured for Lothiriel to sit as Boromir stood a few feet from her side.

“I am terribly sorry to have called you from your chambers, dear girl, but I needed to speak with you on an urgent matter,” Denethor almost smiled, standing up and rounding the desk.

“I understand, uncle,” Lothiriel said, smiling behind her veil. She did not understand, and she did not want to be here.

“I am going to ask you a question, and I want honesty out of you,” Denethor said, giving her another careful look, lifting the veil from her face, before kneeling in front of her, “for if you lie to me, I will know it. I know you as well as I know my own heart, child.”

The quick shift in her brow was something he wished he hadn’t seen. She was nervous. If she had done nothing wrong, and if she had nothing to hide, why should she be nervous? He had never hurt her or given her any reason to fear him.

Denethor took a breath before he asked, “Has the King of Rohan made you his whore?” He did not look at her, but at Boromir.

His son’s face fell, no it didn’t fall; Boromir looked horrified.

The rage came on quick, and Denethor’s hands snatched at the arms of Lothiriel’s chair, and leaned over her, his face close to hers, “Answer me, now.”

  
“You have already had my person examined, once since I returned to Gondor, why not do it again if you so doubt me!” she spat back at him.

“Do not take that tone with me, young lady.”

Lothiriel stood, her own face twisted with rage as she shoved past her uncle, shouldering a slim opening for her escape and taking it eagerly, “I will not stay here to be insulted. Especially considering that I should not be here at all!”

“I take your lack of answer for an affirmation.”

“I do not see how it could be an affirmation,” she snarled over her shoulder, “I have not done anything that I should be ashamed of, and I have done nothing that would justify the way you are speaking to me!”

“You have not been excused,” Denethor followed after her, and snatched her a little more roughly than he meant to by the back of her neck, forcing her to turn, “and as such, you will stay until I allow you to leave.”

“Father,” Boromir started toward them, his voice a mix of concern and warning.

He stared at his niece, his dear girl, and saw only hatred and disgust on her face as she stood cornered against a shelf of books. “You are a member of this household and of this family, and you will act as one, or I will make you wish that you were only put in a storage room.”

Her eyes widened and she dug her nails into his hand, the look of hatred solidified and mingled with a determination, almost daring him before she leaned her head back a little and bashed her forehead against his.

“Father!” Boromir’s hands on his shoulders wretched him away from her, pulling her neck free of Denethor’s grasp. A cold panic washed over Denethor. He hadn’t even realized what he had done, that his hands had twisted around her throat, that he had been touching her at all.

Something snapped, and Boromir could see the break in Lothiriel happen as soon as it occurred but stood staring in disbelief as the wild look came into her eyes. It wasn’t the same as when she had punched him at Meduseld. The calculated swing was calculated, and once her fist loudly connected with the middle of Denethor’s chest and he crumpled, she didn’t stop, or step back from him.

Lothiriel lurched forward, screaming, and she threw herself at Denethor, knocking him to the ground and began thrashing at him. For a moment, Boromir could not process what it was he was witnessing. It was the sort of thing that their family might joke would happen where neither of these two would hear, but he had never considered that his father and Lothiriel would ever come to blows about anything. They had always seemed like two halves of the same mind, and after a moment, he realized that what was happening was in fact real, and that he was yelling at both of them.

Boromir’s arms wrapped tight around her waist, pulling her up off of the floor even as she made it difficult, not because she was heavy, she wasn’t, but she flailed like a cat at bath-time. Her flailing limbs were a hazard, and he hoped holding her up off the floor for a moment where she couldn’t hurt anyone, that she would wear herself out and stop. Her screaming was honestly more frightening, the animalistic noises coming out of her made Boromir fear what she would do if she got free.

Setting her down, Boromir pressed a hand against her stomach, trying to keep himself between them in case either tried to move closer to the other. “Lothiriel, stop. You must calm down!”

“My child, I… I beg your forgiveness. I cannot say what came over me.” He reached out to her, his hand shaking, and then clenched shut as she lurched toward him, her body slamming into the wall that Boromir was trying to create between them for a moment before she leapt back, breathing hard.

Lothiriel slid sideways suddenly, taking careful steps as she made her way to the door, her eyes never leaving him. She was so young, and so small, and looked like the thing she had acted as, she looked like a trapped animal.

“Lothiriel, my girl,” Denethor took a careful step toward her, shaking off Boromir’s hand and trying to pass him, wincing a little against some pain, “I would never hurt you. You know that I love you, I must have lost myself for a moment, but it has passed.”

“Do not come near me,” she said, her voice sounding strangled as her hand found the door and she ran.

“Son, I…” he looked at Boromir, “You know I would never…”

“Father, you need rest, and help that I cannot give you,” Boromir said, watching him carefully, one hand on the handle of his dagger, the other held out, warding him back. He had expected his father to strike back at Lothiriel, but he hadn’t, and Boromir was at a loss for what to do about any of this.

“No,” Denethor said quickly, “This madness has passed, it has, and I am myself. We will not speak of this. If anyone hears that we have fought, they will blame her for it,” he took a breath, pressing a hand against his chest, “bring your cousin back, I must make her understand-”

“She has been through much and is not in a condition to have had this talk in the first place. I think it would be better to let her have the rest of her time in seclusion to calm herself,” Boromir watched his father, with careful eyes and felt a sudden wave of helplessness come over him as his father sat, his hands over his eyes to stop himself crying. He could not leave his father like this, but he wasn’t entirely certain that Lothiriel’s rage would pass entirely. He needed to find his aunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, guys. Denethor is going to be dealt with. I promise.


	21. Chapter 21

Lothiriel’s bedchamber door was locked.

Looking around the sitting room for a moment, Ivriniel remembered something that Boromir had told her, and scanned over the books that Lothiriel kept in her sitting room. There might not be another chance to look about Lothiriel's things without an interruption, and she knew it had to be here somewhere. She knew that there was something hidden somewhere in the room, and she knew that Lothiriel would likely hide something in plain sight where no one would think to investigate. One book stood out among the word bindings. One book was untouched.

Ivriniel knocked on the door, “Lothiriel, it is me. Open the door.” There was no answer for a minute and Ivriniel opened her mouth to speak again when the door opened a small crack, Lothiriel’s pale grey eye scanning to ensure that it was only her aunt.

Satisfied that no one had come with her, Lothiriel pulled back from the door, letting her aunt into her room.

“What happened?” Ivriniel asked, closing the door before studying Lothiriel.

“Uncle tried to strangle me!” Lothiriel snapped, trembling, “After he called me a whore.”

“He summoned you?” Ivriniel stared, dumbfounded, “He had no consideration for your womanly needs?”

Lothiriel sat back on her bed, and her aunt realized how badly she was shaking, her hands clasped together. Her nails were digging into the skin of her hands. She looked terrified, but past that, Lothiriel looked angry, a hard, unbreakable fury burned in her eyes.

“Tell me everything.”

“There is little to tell that I have not already said,” Lothiriel said, “Uncle asked if I had becoming Eomer’s whore and when I denied it and tried to leave, he put his hands around my throat.”

“And then?” Ivriniel pressed, not making any mention of Lothiriel’s familiarity, of her lack of honorific when discussing the Rohirric King.

“I smashed my head against his to get away,” Lothiriel hesitated, “And then I might have attacked him, and next thing that I knew Boromir was pulling me off him. It all happened so fast.” She looked at her aunt’s face, stricken and fearful, but saw something not unlike admiration in that look. “He truly will not let me go, will he?”

Ivriniel sat by Lothiriel’s side on the bed, and put her hand on her back, letting Lothiriel curl into her arms, her narrow frame shaking in the embrace as the young princess fought back tears. Taking a deep breath, Ivriniel spoke, “Your Rohir submitted a request for your hand,” she said, pulling Lothiriel back to look at her, “and from what I have heard it went poorly. Your uncle did not show King Eomer the respect that he is due, and Eomer responded in kind.”

Lothiriel dropped her face into her hands, wanting to scream, to break something, “Why could he not keep his mouth shut?”

Ivriniel was about to ask which of them she meant, but stopped, “In truth, I think to commend King Eomer for being so passionate in his defense of you.”

“Truly?” Lothiriel asked, tearing her hands from her face. Her voice quivered with hidden sobs, “Does this not make it harder? Uncle will never agree now, not that he would have before?”

“I hesitate to give you the council that I must,” Ivriniel murmured, looking over her shoulder to see if there was any shadow under the door from an eavesdropper. She took the book from where she had hidden in on the bed, under her skirts and held it out of Lothiriel, “You know what must be done.”

Lothiriel recoiled a moment before taking the thing and lifting the cover. The vial of poison sat there, glinting hatefully back at her, “how did you know?”

“You would never have been able to be certain someone would not see you ridding yourself of it,” Ivriniel said, “and now we must be grateful that you did not do so.”

“I cannot do this, aunt,” Lothiriel sobbed, “please do not ask it of me.”

“I ask only for your rights of freedom to be restored to you by this action.”

“What freedom? The freedom to return to your keeping?” Lothiriel asked, a little hard, the knowing look on her face was vacant of any innocent idea of family love.

“I should think that would be better than living here under Denethor’s thumb,” Ivriniel sniffed, wanting to be offended, but understanding. She took the hollow book back and took the vial out, holding it up to the dim light in the room. She uncorked it and gave it a sniff, nodding to herself before closing it again, and thinking to herself. She sat in silence for a moment before she spoke again, “Lothiriel, you must be protected,” her finger smoothed carefully over the angry red marks on her niece’s neck. They would likely bruise, and her confinement was almost at its end, “This must not ever happen again. I hesitate to ask this, but if it was done, not by your hand, would you still find it so terrible?”

Lothiriel pressed her hands to her face again, trying to stop everything that was swirling in her mind, “I want to be free of him. I do not want to live in fear anymore.”

“You want to be married to your young king?”

Lothiriel hesitated at the question. She was still uncertain that she would always care for Eomer as she did now, but she liked him so terribly much that if he asked, she would say yes. He had made her feel something that she had never felt before, not only physically, but that strange swelling in her chest when he smiled at her.

She might say yes just to get herself from her uncle’s house. She might say yes because Eomer made her feel special and beautiful, and more than that, he made her feel safe. He saw her for who she was, and he understood her better than most, it seemed. He was not perfect, but then neither was she.

They would have to work to make their marriage a success, she knew, but then, didn’t everyone?

“I do,” she admitted, because after every deliberation, every reason she thought of to break things off with Eomer, she still found herself wanting to be with him, and that want overwhelmed all of those sensible reasons.

Ivriniel nodded slowly, “Your uncle will be taken care of. We will wait until the Rohirrim leave so there will be no suspicion on King Eomer. Do not think on it, do not dwell on it. Make peace with Denethor and leave the rest to me.”

She could see the rage still in Lothiriel’s eyes and the pain of this betrayal, this abandonment of everything that she had thought, secretly, would never happen to her again.

0x0x0

“I am simply pointing out that it could have gone worse,” Eowyn said, sympathetically, pouring some whiskey into a cup for her brother, and another for herself.

“How?” Eomer asked dejectedly from the chaise he had sprawled his mass over. He lifted the arm that covered his eyes to look at her, “Should I not have simply thanked them for their time and left peacefully?” Even as he asked the question, he knew it could have been worse. He had at least checked his temper well enough that he had not snatched Lord Denethor up by his throat and dragged him down the length of the hall.

“That would have been the wisest course,” Eowyn held the cup out to him, “But if you had done that, you would not be my brother.”

Eomer chuckled, sitting up, “I am just so tired of holding back my every instinct and feeling.”

“Believe me, I know,” Eowyn nodded, taking a sip and reminding herself to thank Faramir again for the spirits, “I have done my best to hold my own tongue, but the Steward is the sort of man that just overwhelms good sense.”

“I do not see how I have offended him,” Eomer complained, not thinking to ask what she meant by that, “I have done nothing to the man. I have barely spoken to him!”

“I doubt it has anything to do with you in truth. There were already rumors that you would ask for Lothiriel’s hand, likely spread by some of our men that spoke too freely over drinks. Lord Denethor does not seem like the sort that calmly accepts it when his plans are changed,” Eowyn shook her head, “I detest him from the little I have seen.”

“Do you know how he has treated Lothiriel?” Eomer asked, wondering if Lothiriel had told Eowyn anything. He knew that Eowyn would not know everything, he still wasn’t certain that he knew everything. He hoped that she had decided to stop keeping secrets from him but was not entirely certain that such a habit was easily broken. If they wed, he knew the first year of marriage would likely be spent ensuring that she knew he would not betray her trust.

“I know enough. Faramir told me some things about his treatment of himself and of Lothiriel, and it has taken most of my control not to cut him down."

Eomer smiled a little, “Oh, Faramir? How very familiar of you, sister.”

She kicked at him, purposefully not making contact, “Hush, you.”

He laughed, taking a drink, “He seems a good man, if a bit skittish.”

“Well any man that would have to tell you the things that he did would likely be skittish. Especially when you pull that face.”

“What face?”

Eowyn sat up and composed her face into a grim and ornery countenance, her eyes gleaming with ill-intent for a moment before giggling, “That one, where you try to frighten people into giving you answers that you like better than the ones they have.”

Eomer shook his head, smiling, “Alright, I will be nice and try not to make that face at your gentleman friend. But I must ask if this is a passing interest to recover from…” Eomer raised a brow to signify Aragorn’s rebuff without saying it, “or do you like this fellow in truth.”

“I like him,” Eowyn admitted, “He is kindly and seems to be earnest.”

“Earnest does seem to be a fair description,” Eomer teased.

“Be nice, please.”

“I will. I have had Lothiriel’s brothers to contend with, and their antics have left me quite unwilling to inflict any such games and devices on another poor soul who only intends to court a lady.”

Eowyn laughed, “Have they been terrible to you?”

“Not terrible so much as I do not know how much to believe in what they tell me anymore. They have been playing the game of cultural differences too well for my enjoyment.”

“My poor brother,” Eowyn pulled her feet up to nestle them under herself in the chair, “I can imagine you acting foolishly at their instruction. Did they make you wear a silly hat or something of that sort?” she asked, taking another drink, almost seeing her brother wearing a jester’s hat at a dinner table.

Eomer swirled the whiskey a moment, watching the liquor slide in slow trails down the inside of the cup, “More the sort of thing where they tell you that something is acceptable, or expected and you are made the fool for it,” he looked at his sister’s face, seeing her need for tales in her eyes, “They told me that I could go into the ladies’ sitting room to collect Lothiriel, which caused a bit of awkwardness. And Erchirion told me that I must collect seashells as a betrothal gift. I had collected quite a few before Lothiriel told me that there was no such custom.”

“Shells?”

“They are like rocks that come from the sea,” Eomer explained.

“So, you were sifting through sand?” Eowyn laughed, and was relieved that Eomer chuckled, clearly having decided that enough time had passed the laugh at it.

“I had Eothain helping.”

“Did he complain terribly?”

“No, surprisingly. He has been more amenable to my wishes of late,” Eomer said, a slow wonder in his voice, “though he still complains a little or makes some remark that he imagines is quite amusing.”

“You can change his armor, and his rank, but not him,” Eowyn said with contentment, before a slow sad look came over her face, “How is Lothiriel?”

“I have not seen her since we returned from Dol Amroth, but before that she was…” Eomer smiled at the warm memory of her body reacting to his touch, “she was well.”

“I will not ask what you did, but I gather from that look that the pair of you were quite… indecorous,” Eowyn teased.

“Nothing that anyone will be able to prove. At worst, she was not in her bed, and if asked, I will say that it was not proper, but that we simply spoke together.”

“No one will believe that, Eomer,” Eowyn shook her head at him, “Denethor least of all. That man…” she let out a breath, “He has been only as polite to me as he could needed to, and I do not think he will let me marry his son.”

“Does he have someone else in mind?” Eomer asked, affronted again. He understood the prejudices of this country in theory, but when faced with them in reality, they galled him. Even with that, he could take people looking at him as inferior more easily than he could take anyone looking at his sister in such a way. “He must do if he finds you wanting, for you are the sister of a king.”

Eowyn thought a moment about how to phrase her theory, taking a long, burning drink, “I think Denethor likes to know what every person around him is going to do. You and I… He does not know us. He does not know what we will do, and because of that, he cannot manage us. That is what he fears. You told him that he fears being alone, but I do not think that is what it is, at least not entirely. I think he fears losing control, which I grant you might go hand in hand with his fear of being left alone."

“What do you base that on?” Eomer said, “I do not doubt that you are right, but… if Denethor does not speak to you more than a few courtesies, where would you find such a theory?”

Eowyn’s smile was the impish, mischievous smile from their childhoods, and Eomer had not realized that he had missed it so much until he saw it again. “Because Faramir is much smarter than his brother.” There was so much admiration in her face that she seemed to glow from it.

After a moment of quiet, Eomer spoke again, “Lothiriel is having her woman’s time, and has not left her rooms. I sent her some flower, but beyond Lady Ivriniel telling me that Lothiriel likes them and thanks me, I have heard nothing.”

Eowyn listened, thoughtfully, “I have not seen her since Dunharrow. Do you think it is Denethor’s doing? Or is it simply that Lothiriel takes the worst of the Curse?”

“I cannot claim to know, though I wish I did,” Eomer said, “He keeps her on so tight a leash that I fear if I cannot get her away from him… what if I return and she has simply turned back to what he made her? What if I return for her, and she does not wish to leave?”

“Do you think she will stop loving you?”

“Do you think she loves me?” Eomer’s face lightened, his hesitant acceptance of rejection banished at once.

Eowyn laughed, “Have you told her that you love her yet?”

“No,” Eomer admitted.

“Do you?” She knew the answer, but she missed teasing him. She missed the way that things had been before the war, before their lives had become so fraught, and she wanted to take back that way of being.

He blushed, staring at his feet.

She squealed, teasing him with a singsong exclamation, “my brother is in love!”

“Hush. Your plotting was to a purpose, and I am hesitant to give you more victory than you have already won for yourself, little sister,” Eomer shot a look at her, trying not to grin. “But yes, I love her, and I will tell her the next time that I see her.”

“I would be careful,” Eowyn said, “As much as I am certain she would be pleased to hear it, it might make her a bit careless in whatever plans she has to free herself, as she might see it as a cause worth the risk.” She studied her brother’s face, resigning herself to whatever choice he was going to make, and to the fact that she might need to help rectify whatever fallout there was from it, “You are going to tell her in spite of that.”

“I want her to know,” Eomer complained, leaning back and slumping into the chaise, “She should know.”

“Fine,” Eowyn scoffed, trying not to laugh, “do not heed my advice, you never have before.”

“Eowyn, do not try to guilt me, you know that never works as well as you think it will.”

“Or for as long,” she agreed.

0x0x0

Aragorn squared his shoulders, ready for a fight, and needing to put the steel in his spine. He knocked on the door, waiting for a call to enter. It took too long for the answer, and Aragorn wondered what Lord Denethor was trying to hide.

“Enter,” the voice came.

Lord Denethor looked wretched, and disheveled, and common decency made Aragorn begin to tell him that he would return later, but his indignation checked that impulse.

“My Lord Steward, we must speak.”

“I am at your service, Your Majesty,” Lord Denethor stood to bow, smoothing a hand over his hair.

“I appreciate that,” Aragorn smiled, scanning the room quickly for any disorder that would give him a clue to a hiding place, or some such thing, but saw nothing, “I would ask that you show the deference to King Eomer or Rohan that he is entitled to.”

“I apologize for my rudeness,” Lord Denethor nodded, his hands kneading themselves anxiously, a contradiction to the calm face that he showed his king, “I was simply surprised by his request. Lothiriel is as a daughter to me, and I would rather not lose her.”

Aragorn nodded, his jaw working a little, “As touching as that sentiment is, you must have known that someday she would marry.”

“I had hoped that she would marry and live near her family,” Lord Denethor supplied easily.

“Be that as it may, as King of Gondor, I like this marriage. If your niece consents to it, I would have it done,” Aragorn said with as much regal intensity as he could muster, “Politics aside, I suspect that Princess Lothiriel would agree.”

“Why would you think that?” There was something in the way that the question was asked that made Aragorn’s skin crawl. There was something about the Steward that disquieted him and had since the first time he spoke to the man, all those years before. He had not been the same man, but there had been some hungry shred of what he would become in his eyes.

“I did not realize that I needed to explain myself to you,” Aragorn said, “I was under the impression that when a King said something was to be done, it was to be done.”

Lord Denethor’s eyes darkened, their old rivalry remembered and burning hatefully back at Aragorn. “No, Your Majesty.”

“You will allow King Eomer to court Princess Lothiriel,” Aragorn said with a smile, “and you will show them both the respect that they deserve, or I will nullify your custody rights and return her to her father, who might be more amenable to my requests.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lord Denethor smiled maliciously.

“Thank you,” Aragorn smiled back, before sweeping from the room, “That is all.”

0x0x0

Her seclusion ended with her courses and she was to return to her courtly life of visibility. As a young, unmarried woman, it was expected that she would wear the latest fashions and do so well as a sign of her family's status and prosperity. The marks on her throat had faded some, but could still be seen, and she had to cover them as well as she could. The high silk collars that she wore were unusual outside of the ceremonial garb that her people wore on the highest of ceremonial occasions, but they were the only things she had that would cover the damage to her throat.

She had to hide them from every eye that scanned her over and did her best to pair them with overdresses and over-robes, that made it seem as if she was trying a new style of dress. The one person that she wanted to confide in was the one person she needed to hide the bruises from the most. If Eomer saw them, there would be little hope of controlling him, from stopping him from reacting violently to the violence that had been done.

She walked the corridor to Lord Denethor’s office, Boromir, and her brothers following her. They all knew a piece of the puzzle, a part of the story but none of them knew it all. Lord Denethor had sent for her, and she would pretend that she forgave him.

At the door, her brothers and Boromir stopped, waiting to be alerted to something amiss if it was needed, and a look of understanding passed between them.

Lothiriel took a deep breath before knocking, opening the door, and entering the predator’s den.

The four men waited outside, none of them speaking as they waited for her to call out or to leave the office. The wait felt endless, but not one moved, or shifted their weight. They stood stock still for an hour and eventually the door opened, and they moved to stay out of Denethor’s line of sight in case he followed her. He did not, and she gave a short nod before walking back down the stairs, her familial guard falling back in behind her.

Imrahil and Ivriniel stood when the children entered the room, scanning the group of them over for any sign of damage or distress and found none. Boromir looked between his aunt and uncle before bowing his head and withdrawing with the Prince’s sons. He knew the least of the plan but was comforted by that. He did not want to know what was discussed, or what was planned. He knew this would not end well and had decided that he would not interfere, a decision easier to keep to without any knowledge.

“Well?” Ivriniel asked.

“It went well. We are friends, and it is as if nothing has happened,” Lothiriel said, arranging her skirts nicely around herself as she sat gracefully. “He is in quite a state, and I doubt he has slept.”

Imrahil stooped beside her and shifted Lothiriel’s collar down a little, to see the damage for himself again, frowning at the marks that wrapped around her neck, “I am so sorry, my daughter. I am to blame for this.” He has said that, or something like it every time they had met in the last two days.

“Do we know what set this into motion?” Ivriniel asked, cutting the tenderness short to focus on the task at hand, gesturing at Lothiriel’s neck.

“Likely King Eomer’s request,” Imrahil coughed a little, straightening his back, “He wishes to marry Lothiriel and has asked in an official sense, bring every required document. You ought to thank Faramir for that, I think,” he chuckled at his daughter, trying to alleviate the awkwardness that he felt. He had been still amending his own petition for custody when Ivriniel had told him what had happened. It was originally Imrahil’s intention to drag Lothiriel before the King and the Steward and show the evidence of her mistreatment.

Imrahil loved his sister, but sometimes the way her mind worked disgusted him. It seemed that while she was as concerned for Lothiriel as he was, she was also not inclined to risk Boromir losing his future station as Steward. He wondered if this was a greater concern, or if Ivriniel was as ever trying to be cautious, and to prepare for every eventuality. He would never admit to anyone what had been discussed, or the reasons for it, much as he hated them.

Lothiriel blushed at Imrahil’s words, and at her secret. She looked at her aunt, who was studying her. Ivriniel was trying to make sense of the blush, certain it was more than what Imrahil said.

There was something that Lothiriel was not saying, and Ivriniel was not going to ask her. It would risk showing her own hand, and she was not in the habit of disclosing things. She wondered if Lothiriel knew that her handmaid was a spy. It was likely that she did, but did Lothiriel know that she would feed Ivriniel information? Lord Denethor was the closer threat and between the two was also the closer employer. If Anthel had said something that had compounded Denethor’s paranoia, it would explain things.

There were a lot of conclusions that she was leaping to, but she liked to try to see all possibilities. It was on the tip of her lips to recommend that Lothiriel be examined again, but what if they found something that they did not want to find? What if that was the reason that Denethor had called her such an insulting thing?

“Will you consent to a marriage if one is offered and approved?” Imrahil asked.

Lothiriel nodded slowly, “though, depending on the status of my custody, I might prefer a long engagement, the better for us to know each other. I have admittedly already discussed this with His Majesty.”

Ivriniel raised a brow, as she decided which of those things she would question, “And you mean to do this over a great distance? How intriguing. I should love to see how that plays out.”

“There are these marvelous things called letters, Aunt,” Lothiriel replied, “they really are amazing. You can write down all manner of things and send them to people. You simply must try it.”

Ivriniel smiled, “Enough tartness from you, young lady.” Lothiriel’s grin warmed her a little, and she sniffed to regain her composure. “One thing at a time. There is a banquet tomorrow and you are to be as presentable as can be managed. It might be the last time your see your King for a few weeks, so you had best go and find something that does not make you look like you belong in a convent.”

Lothiriel made a face at her aunt as she stood. She flinched a little at her father’s hand as it caught her arm, and immediately felt terrible for it, “I am sorry, father.”

“No apologies,” Imrahil said, smiling bitterly and smoothing a hand over her hair. “I will not detain you, dear.”

She curtsied and left the room.

Imrahil fell back into his seat, “So who do you want for this? It must be someone we can trust.”

“You,” Ivriniel said, simply.

“Me, what?”

“You are going to, for the first time in Lothiriel’s entire life actively protect her.”

Imrahil’s eyes widened, “You would have me… do such a despicable thing as this?”

“You would have someone else do it,” Ivriniel spat back, years of contained vitriol spilling from her, “I know that you so hate to get your soft hands dirty unless it is a matter of glory, but you do this, or I will, and it will not be as peacefully done.”

He balked at his sister, “May I have some time to consider?”

“No.” She stood and tossed the vial at him, as she stood, “Wait until the Rohirrim are gone. I do not want any diplomatic incidents, especially as I doubt King Eomer’s displeasure has been well hidden. Lothiriel has made peace with the beast, and told him that she kept the secret, and begged Boromir to do the same. If anyone looks for a cause, it will seem as though he had a stroke.”

“Sister…”

“Denethor has been in poor health for years,” Ivriniel smirked, “ask any gossip and they will tell you so.”

“You really are quite frightening,” Imrahil said, “How long were you spreading that story? And why?”

“Initially? To discredit him,” she admitted, “but it ended up being in our favor, do you not find?”

0x0x0

If anyone had ever asked Eomer where he thought the wicked went when they died, he likely would have replied that they went to banquets in Minas Tirith. There was something grating about the idea that this was what passed for festivities. He had not seen a single couple sneak away from chaperones, nor any fights. Everyone seemed to be on their best behavior, and Eomer feared drinking too much and creating tension between their countries or causing some offense or rumor that he would never be able to fully overcome.

The only benefit was that Lothiriel was there on the other side of the room from him, a fact that only mildly calmed Eomer because she had not yet spoken to him or held his gaze for more than a few moments.

Eowyn stared at him, “Brother?”

He had forgotten his sister was standing by him, “Yes?”

“You are useless,” Eowyn chuckled, taking his arm and dragging him from his spot and hauling him delicately across the hall to Lord Denethor and Princess Lothiriel. “When I nudge you, ask Lothiriel to dance.”

Eomer fought a groan at his sister’s planning but said nothing and tried not to look at Lothiriel with a stupid mooneyed look that would make his sister empty her stomach on him.

“My Lord,” Eowyn curtsied, and nudged her brother to bow, “Your Highness, you look lovely.”

Lothiriel rose from her curtsy, trying to check her grin, “Lady Eowyn, I love your dress!”

“Thank you!” Eowyn smiled, “How have you been?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Lothiriel’s brow quirked a little at the banality of it, “I was sorry that we missed Aragorn’s coronation.”

“It was rather a quick thing, though when they brought out Isildur’s sarcophagus,” Eowyn slid her eyes to Denethor who was not paying them much attention before she mouthed, ‘bore him’, “well that certainly was a sight.”

Lothiriel smirked, “I heard the weather was pleasant at least.”

“Indeed, it was quite nice.”

They continued to exchange bland pleasantries, watching Lord Denethor’s eyes glaze over from the dullness of it. For his part, Eomer would have taken someone threatening his life for something interesting to happen. 

Satisfied that he was bearing witness to the decent but dull conversations of well-brought up ladies, Denethor stopped paying attention. He scanned his eyes over the hall, picking out people that he needed to watch more carefully that the assembly as a whole. Lady Ivriniel was speaking with the king, and he wondered what they were discussing. Whatever it was would be more interesting that this, he was certain.

Eowyn watching carefully until she saw the opportunity and prodded her brother’s foot with hers.

“Would you dance with me?” Eomer said a little too quickly, almost wincing at the abruptness of it.

“Yes,” Lothiriel smiled, prying her hand from her uncle’s grasp in the moment that it took for Denethor to realize what was happening, and held it out for Eomer to take.

His hold on her fingers was delicate, and he led her along, “I hope I learned the steps for whatever the next dance is,” Eomer said, having realized that flaw in the plan too late.

“If you have not, you must simply relax, and watch what everyone else does,” Lothiriel smiled, “and I will try to help you.” She took her place just off center from him, waiting to hear the first notes, “It will likely be simple, so do not worry.”

“I missed you,” Eomer said quietly, relief washing through him as Lothiriel lifted his hand to circle him, the dance being one that he had learned. He took the first few steps, looking down to mind his feet before remembering not to.

She smirked as she rounded him again, “Have you been staring into space and longing terribly?”

“What if I have?” he asked, turning to catch her other hand and doing his best to keep the rhythm of the dance with his steps.

“I loved the flowers,” she answered, “and I have missed you, too.” She spun away from him for a moment, a quick partner change. Eomer did not know the woman that took his hand for a few moments before going back to her partner and Lothiriel returned to him, “How did you know my favorite color?”

Eomer shrugged nonchalantly, “I must have some mystery.”

“I suppose,” she chuckled, letting him twirl her. “I feared I would miss your leaving.”

“You know if it were in my power, I would stay as long as you wished,” Eomer said, bungling a step and trying to correct himself.

“I heard a rumor that you asked for a princess’ hand,” Lothiriel teased him, trying to help him relax.

She was so effortlessly graceful, and to Eomer’s eye there was no fault in her dancing. He felt like a hulking brute in comparison, “I did, though I fear my temper got the better of me when speaking to her uncle. I fear my lady will be quite displeased with me for it.”

“Perhaps not,” she said, “Perhaps sometimes tempers needn’t always be controlled.” There was something sad in the look she gave him, and he could not yet ask what had happened. “Perhaps your lady has a more fearsome temper than you would expect.”

“I should hope it is not more fearsome than I know already,” Eomer replied, “for if I mean to marry her, I will doubtless be at the mercy of her anger oft enough.”

She giggled, and that hand was back, hiding her smile. He tried to count himself lucky at having won a giggle, and in that took solace that as she hid her smile from him again. “Perhaps you would do better to find a sweet and patient wife, my lord.”

“Would that I could do that,” Eomer gave her that softened look, the closest thing he could manage to a smile in this nest of vipers, “but I have already given my heart to this princess, and I cannot take it back.”

She stared at him for a moment, almost stepping wrong, but catching herself, “Have you?”

“I have,” Eomer said, guiding her through the next few steps.

A slow smile lit her face, “I hope she is worthy of such a gift.”

“You are that and more.”

The music slowed and the dance ended and Eomer wanted to call to his men to hold the musicians at the point of their spears and play on for the rest of the evening.

“Meet me on the veranda in three minutes,” Lothiriel whispered as she rose from her curtsy. She disappeared into the sea of silk dresses, and he could not find her, try as he might. He counted the seconds, making his way to fetch some wine.

The air outside was cool on his face and after the close hall, he felt hesitant to return at all. He looked around and was not certain for a moment that he had counted correctly. He wondered if he had missed the window of opportunity until he heard the rustle of silk.

Lothiriel stood, leaning against the wall, grinning at him, “Is that for me?” she gestured to the goblet.

“It is mine, but you may have some if you ask me nicely,” Eomer smiled back, approaching her.

“Please may I have a drink?”

He passed the goblet to her, quickly scanning the wide, open space behind him to ensure that no one had followed him.

She took a quick drink, and looked back at him, “Who did your cloak pins?” she asked suddenly, trying not to laugh.

“I did,” Eomer said as if mildly offended, “Why, are they done wrong?”

Lothiriel chuckled, setting the goblet on the stone rail that surrounded the veranda, “They are crooked. Here,” she shook her head, reaching under the heavy but fine wool to unfasten one and right it, her gaze passing between the two pins as she evened them.

He watched her, feeling the warmth from her hands in his heart, wondering if she would be his wife, and if she would do this for him from time to time. It was such a sweet and simple gesture that his heart ached at it.

She smoothed a hand over the embroidery at the edge of the cloak to ensure it sat right and smiled as his hand caught hers, pressing it over his heart for a moment.

“Tell me that you are going to take me with you back to Edoras,” she said, wistfully.

“I will throw you over the back of my horse,” Eomer teased, leaning close to her, “and keep you forever.”

She stood up on her toes and rubbed her nose against his for a moment before dropping back to her natural height, “What if I fall off?”

“I suppose I shall need to tie you up.”

Her cheeks reddened, as the words formed in her mind, “Do you promise?”

“Your Highness,” he said, comically shocked, “if I did not know you to be a well-behaved young lady, I would think that you had some lascivious meaning in those words.”

“Then I suppose it is a good thing that you know I am so.”

He watched her bite her lip and he considered following through on abducting her. “I love you,” he said, smoothing the curl back from her brow.

The words were so tender and earnest that they made her want to cry. She could not say them back, not yet, but she thought she might feel the same way. Once she said them, she could not unsay them, and part of her still felt cautious.

He hadn’t expected her to say it. It was enough to see her reaction to the words, the effect they had on her, and that she knew.

He smiled at her and reached up quickly. He pressed his hand to her neck, leaning to kiss her, but stopped at the flinch she gave. Straightening, he looked at her, trying to sort her expression into something that did not break his heart, “Lothiriel…”

“It is nothing,” she smiled, and he saw the fracture in her mask, her hand reaching up to cup his face, to distract him with the kiss she offered.

His fingers shifted her collar down carefully, only an inch or so. The light was dim, but enough for him to see the impressions of fingers against her golden brown skin. He stared at her, “Who?”

“Eomer,” her voice was a warning, “It is in hand. I need you not to react.”

“Another secret, then?” he pulled back from her, recoiling, “I thought we agreed that you would not keep things from me.” He had just told her that he loved her, what more did she need?

“It is not a matter of trust, but what I know you would do,” she snatched his arm, pulling him back to her, looking to ensure that no one would overhear her speaking. If anyone heard her, they would suspect her treachery, “It is going to be taken care of, but you must not do anything.”

The cold look in her eyes scared him for a moment, and he looked again at her neck, “Did your uncle do this?”

“Please, Eomer,” she begged, squeezing his hands in hers, “I know it is the hardest thing for you, but you must listen to me.”

Eomer cupped her cheeks, “How can you ask me to leave you here, and do nothing?”

Her eyes slid shut, and the anguish of it all was wrought on her face for a moment, “Please. I cannot bear it if anything were to happen to you.” She looked at him, her hands resting against his chest, “I need you to trust me.”

“I do,” he said, trying to stop himself from staring at her neck, “but it does not make this easier.”

“I know,” her fingers stroked his cheek, “Might I give you a kiss to try to take the sting out?”

“You may certainly try,” Eomer said, as if terribly put out.

She looked thoughtful for a moment, “Then I should tell you that I thrashed the old goat,” she smiled, blushing.

His brow raised, a gleeful glint coming into his eyes, “Did you?” He could imagine her fighting her uncle, and he should not have like the imagining as much as he did.

“I might have gone a bit mad…” she said quietly, and a little too proudly, before she looked back up at him. She lifted herself up as far as she could manage, her arms sliding back around his shoulders to leverage herself up to kiss him.

He stooped a little to wrap his arms tightly around her, when her lips left his, he pressed his face into the crook of her neck to the best of his ability without lifting her. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the quiet of the night around them, and the distant echoing sounds of the banquet, and the sweet smell of lilac in her hair. When he parted from her, he held her shoulders carefully in his hands, “I will be back as soon as I am able.”

“If I have not sorted this by then, you may act as you wish,” she teasingly assured him, “and I will not stop you.”

0x0x0

Aragorn watched carefully, waiting for the pair of them to return. His eye caught that of Lady Ivriniel, who had advised him, with her brother, in her strange forward way to do this. He was certain that Eomer would want to kill him, but it would make a few things easier for the young couple, and he was eager to help where he could.

The moment Princess Lothiriel reappeared, her aunt took her arm, and carefully guided her over to Prince Imrahil’s side where they made polite conversation, and he noted the quick way that Lady Ivriniel leaned to whisper something by the Princess’ ear.

There was one managed, now where was the other…?

Eomer reentered the hall, a strange look on his face, and Aragorn waited for him to rejoin his sister before he called attention.

“I should like to thank you all for coming,” Aragorn began, “and for the services of all the families of Gondor in the efforts to undo the powers of the Enemy. We have peace, and it has been hard won. With this peace we shall rebuild, and create a world built on unity and friendship. With that in mind, it is my honor to announce that The Crown has approved the betrothal of Eomer, King of Rohan, to Lothiriel, Princess of Dol Amroth.” He guessed for a moment that you could have heard a blade a grass fall in the silence before a polite applause began. “May this marriage serve as a reminder of the alliance and bond between our countries.”

Boromir turned slightly away and let out a whoop which caught on and a few other lords, thinking it was the common sentiment, hurrahed.

For a moment, Eomer stared at Aragorn with a mixture of gratitude and murderous intent as he was swarmed by well-wishers and gossips, all wanting to speak to him. Eomer did his best to greet each approaching stranger with courtesy and manners, but his nerves would not survive this ordeal. Aragorn could see him planning his escape.

Lord Denethor on the other hand, looked as if someone had just set his library on fire and then tried to put the fire out with piss. But there was nothing that he could do about it. A Royal Announcement had been made in front of a member every noble family in the country. Not a very well written one, Aragorn could admit, but then, Prince Imrahil and Lady Ivriniel had only come to him with the idea twenty minutes before.


	22. Chapter 22

“If we are to be married, am I able to hold your hand in public?” Eomer asked. It was not that he was given to public displays of affection, but holding her hand sounded like something that might manage to keep him calm. He had finally managed to make his way back to Lothiriel after over an hour of failing to fend off the members of the court. There had been points where he felt like screaming across the hall for her to come to his rescue but was certain that if he did so the embarrassment of it would kill him.

“I am allowed to rest my hand on your arm,” she smiled, watching him fold his arm for her touch, and knew that it did not satisfy him. Her hand sat like a hawk on his wrist, and she did her best to let her fingertips brush his skin as a comfort. “I suppose that is the trouble with having managed to keep this a secret; no one knows that we have spoken more than a few words to each other.”

“If one more person that I have never met comes to me, and promises friendship, I will start a fire,” he swore.

“Will you?”

“A perfect distraction, so that I may flee,” Eomer nodded slowly as if he meant to do it in truth, “You know… your cousin Faramir might think to marry Eowyn.”

“Do you approve of him?” Lothiriel asked, intrigued.

“I do, rather,” Eomer admitted, “I will wait for them to decide, but I would not mind such a union. I am already taking your family on as my own, and it will save me needing to have more introductions. My only hesitance is one you know already, but Faramir is to be made Prince of Ithilien, so she will not live in the citadel at least.”

Lothiriel smiled, “Will she return to Edoras with you?”

“If she wishes to,” Eomer said, “I would not think to part two lovers without their say.”

“What a romantic you are.”

“Hush now, someone will hear you,” he shot her a soft look, “Am I permitted to kiss you?”

“Only my hand,” she chuckled.

He lifted her hand to his lips without a moment’s thought before leaning to her ear, “Your uncle will not be pleased.”

“You could fill a needle’s eye with all that I care,” she replied, smiling at the quick laugh he gave.

There would be gossip, and speculation, and she would try to hide that from him. It would do him no good to know that there were people that might speak ill. From what she heard in the days after through multiple sources, the stories ranged from pity that she would be sent to a country that was so different from her own, to a gleeful sense of malice that she was going to be a queen of a common sort of king, to one suspicion that Denethor had arranged the whole thing to have a spy in Meduseld.

She found that these things did not worry her the way it might have before, and it would not matter anyway, in time. She was happy. Perhaps she did love him after all.

He looked back at her, his brow furrowing for a moment, “What?”

She smiled, shaking her head, “Nothing.”

“You have this strange look on your face.”

“I do?”

“Yes, you look…” he thought for a moment, “happy.”

“Oh, dear, that sounds quite improper,” she tilted her chin at him, “I will need to stop before anyone sees.”

“It suits you.”

Lothiriel blushed, squeezing his arm, feeling that tightening in her chest again as she tried not to blush under his tender gaze. She wanted to savor this moment and take in every detail to remember later when she would need it.

“Do you think there is any chance you might help them?” Eomer asked, nodding toward Eowyn and Faramir who seemed engaged in some strenuous conversation that had Eowyn blushing and Faramir beaming.

“I will not tell you what will come to pass, but I think they will be able to be together if they wish,” Lothiriel said carefully, “Though, I would ask that you not tell your sister anything that we have discussed.”

“Any of it?”

“Her temper is as terrible as yours, darling,” she grinned up at him, her smile wavering at the look on his face as he looked behind her. She turned to see what provoked him and had to force a smile at her uncle, reminding herself that they were friends.

“I am not leaving your side,” Eomer whispered the promise with an earnest resolve that she would never question. “I will be right here, love.”

She squeezed his arm in silent gratitude, before releasing his arm to give her uncle her hand, “My lord uncle.”

“I come to give congratulations, if they are appropriate,” Denethor said, smiling and kissing Lothiriel’s cheek.

“Why would they not be?” Eomer asked.

“Well, as you well know that political, and arranged marriages can be… difficult to accept,” Denethor said.

Lothiriel slid her hand into the crook of Eomer’s arm, a gesture that was a little too intimate, considering how careful they had been to hide their feelings from everyone in this court, but which she hoped would anchor him a little, and stop him from reacting to anything that her uncle said. She could almost feel the heat of his rage streaming out of Eomer.

“I gladly accept your blessings, uncle,” Lothiriel said, smiling through the quick look that flashed in his eyes. She could see him thinking at her that he had not given any such blessing. She let her brow quirk a little as if she was confused by that look, as if she was now concerned that she had done something wrong.

Denethor’s face softened a little, his hand reaching for her, clasping her shoulder, “Though, you know that you will be dearly missed. I am certain I will not know what to do without you around to help me.”

He shouldn’t have, he knew he shouldn’t have, but Eomer stared at that hand with so much hatred it was a wonder that the man did not recoil either out of fear, or from the fact that Eomer’s gaze could have actually burned him.

“I suppose I will need to come and visit Meduseld,” Denethor said, his voice all concern, “to ensure it is a suitable home for you.”

“I can assure you it is,” Eomer said, trying to keep his voice at an acceptable volume.

“Of course. My concern is that your uncle, rest his soul, well, he was... ill for so long. I would be concerned of any disrepairs that might have come to the Golden Hall in that time.”

Eomer’s hand clasped itself over hers carefully, gently. His thumb smoothed over the back of her hand as he took a breath.

“Meduseld is lovely,” Lothiriel said, her fingers squeezing Eomer’s arm again, “and is quite remarkable. I stayed there during my stay in Edoras, and I can assure you that I was most comfortable.”

A look of suspicion came over Denethor’s face as he looked between them and Lothiriel prayed that her uncle would keep his mind for a bit longer. Though, if the madness came over him, it could only help her, save the point that Eomer might respond in some way that would not help, or else his men would press in around them, ready for an order.

“I am certain you were,” there was a dark insinuation in Denethor’s voice.

Eomer took another deep breath, his eyes narrowing slightly, “Your niece will want for nothing, you have my word.”

The sharp laugh was an insult, as Denethor smirked, “Undoubtedly, you will do your best.” He bowed, “Might I borrow Lothiriel for a moment? There was something that I wished to discuss with her.”

Her hand began to slip from his, and Eomer tightened his hold, “With all due respect, my lord Steward, anything you would say to my future wife, I would like to hear it.”

Lothiriel’s face colored and she fought a smile. In truth Eomer was being a little rude, but she was not of a mind to tell him to be any other way at present.

“It is a family matter,” Denethor explained.

“But we are to family, are we not, uncle?” Eomer asked, tilting his head a little. Eomer’s grin was a little wild and he took his hand from Lothiriel’s to clasp the old man’s shoulder, “I should hope that we will all make one big and happy family.”

“Indeed,” Denethor looked for a moment as if he thought Eomer’s hand would tighten around his shoulder until he crushed through the bone there, “Well, it is not so pressing a matter. We will speak later, niece.”

Lothiriel curtsied, her hand still in the bend of Eomer’s arm as she watched her uncle move away, with all the regality of a man who had gotten his way. She pinched his arm, “that was naughty of you.”

“You said nothing to stop me,” Eomer teased, “and besides, I said nothing that was not friendly and warm.”

She raised a brow, “You did.”

“I put forth my best effort.”

“I am most proud of you,” she laughed.

He clasped her hand again and kissed it.

0x0x0

“I tell you that the food is not as disagreeable as we thought,” Eothain said to Gamling pouring a sauce over rice, “I have eaten of the table in Dol Amroth, and so I know.”

“You only-” Elphir began but was silenced by Amrothos’ hand on his arm and the look he gave him full of glee and mischief.

Erchirion rolled his eyes, “Eothain be wary, that has quite a heat to it.”

Eothain’s brow furrowed, the spoon already on its way to his mouth. He saw no steam but blew on it quickly to be sure before eating. “It is rather good, I-” his face suddenly changed, contorting and turning red. He set his plate down and snatched a cup of water from Gamling and emptied the cup, gasping and looking about looking for a pitcher to refill his cup.

“We fed you plain food, thinking it would be better suited to your tastes,” Elphir winced, trying not to laugh as his youngest brother did. He picked up a piece of flat bread, “Take a small piece and put it on your tongue.”

Eothain snatched the larger share of bread, awkwardly shoving the entire thing into his mouth. Eventually his coloring returned to normal and he stared at them wiping the tears from his eyes, “Why do you eat such things?”

“It is to our tastes?” Erchirion said, “You are simply not accustomed to it.”

Picking up the plate again, Eothain nodded, “I see…” he did not, and thought that they were likely mad or of the type that enjoyed suffering, “Gamling, eat this. It hurts your mouth.”

Being of the opinion that Eothain was likely being dramatic and was in truth young and foolish he did so and found that he was not as hearty as he had anticipated.

This seemed to please Erchirion and Amrothos who failed to contain their joy as they fell into laughter which was barely cut by the look that Elphir gave them. The elder son thought this seemed rather a strange and uncivil way to act, but he held his tongue, not wanting to offend any of the guests.

In this way the pair of them went to their countrymen, inflicting the torture of exotic foods as Eomer watched with confusion and a measure of nerves.

“What are we to do with them?” Eowyn teased. She had been all but dragged from the ladies that she had been speaking with by her brother, and his unwillingness to be alone after the announcement of his betrothal. He would need to get over his fear of large groups of strangers, but had not seemed to quite manage it yet.

“They seem to be punishing themselves, so I say that we do nothing,” Eomer chuckled, looking on, before teasing her, “It is kind of your lord to spare you from dancing and conversation.”

“I shall not take anything on that accord from you, brother. I had not thought that you would leave the princess’ side.”

“I do not wish her to feel smothered by my attention,” Eomer admitted, not wanting to say that he had danced once and feared that if he did it again, he would trip or embarrass himself. Lothiriel danced with Lord Faramir, and Eomer knew he would need to hire an instructor to better practice the skill. He remembered himself after a moment of quiet, “She asked if you would return with me to Edoras.”

“I had better,” Eowyn said before emptying her cup.

Eomer saw the sorrow that he felt reflected back at him in her eyes, and for a moment he considered telling her to stay, using the excuse that he wanted to her watch over Lothiriel, “You could stay, if you wished.”

“There would be little enough reason for it. Lord Denethor will hardly approve another marriage with our family, having already been tricked into one,” her voice was a little pained and angry, though she tried to hide it.

His face fell, “I am sorry. But I would tell you that there is always hope,” he tried to smile and stop himself from saying anything else.

She tilted her head, “That is strange coming from you.”

“I am full to bursting with surprises.”

“I am not certain I like you when you are optimistic,” Eowyn shook her head, “Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?”

He pushed her gently, “I should think you would be pleased.”

“I distrust such a change, unless there is cause.”

Eomer’s eyes picked out Lord Denethor, deep in conversation with another lord that he did not know, “If he does not bend, I think he will break.”

Eowyn laughed, “how very clever of you.” She shook her head slowly, “Putting aside the fact that to stay here would mean seeing more of Lord Denethor than I would like, I should return with you out of duty. I do not know that I trust you to manage on your own.”

It went unsaid that they both needed to return to see their uncle home to rest. Neither wanted to dwell on their losses, wanting to enjoy the respite that they had been given from the darkness that had been their lives for so long.

“We will return soon enough,” Eomer said, comfortingly.

“You know you will need to write to her until you wed,” Eowyn said.

“Do not remind me. I already fear having to put words to paper,” Eomer grumbled, knowing that his words would be inadequate. “I doubt there will be anything of interest to tell her besides.”

“Do not look to me to help you, for I am certain I want no part of your love letters,” Eowyn’s gaze scanned over the room, “I take it you did not know that an announcement was to be made?”

Eomer let out a grunt of affirmation, “Would that I had, I would have been better prepared, as would Lothiriel have been. I wonder why Aragorn did it.”

“Being that I am not a king, I cannot imagine the weight of such decisions,” there was a smirk in her voice, “but Lothiriel’s aunt speaking to him for quite a while earlier. What do you think of her?”

“She may yet present a problem,” Eomer said in a low voice, “but I would go out of my way to avoid making an enemy of her.”

“I heard she has a spy in every house, and that she collects secrets in the ways that some ladies collect frocks.”

His eyes traced Lothiriel’s steps through the dance she shared with Faramir, “It may be the way in this place.”

“Would that we could arrange to bring her to Edoras with us or have a marriage done quickly,” Eowyn murmured, “I doubt we have seen the end of Denethor’s meddling.”

“I would rather not discuss him,” Eomer said, curt, his eyes narrowing a little at his sister’s confused face.

“Why? What has he done?”

Eomer gave a quick look to where Denethor let out a laugh, clasping the shoulder of one of his lordly acquaintances, his jaw tensing. “If I was already disinclined to leave Lothiriel in her uncle’s keeping, I am more so now.”

“Has something happened?”

Eomer looked around quickly before nodding, “But she has told me to not concern myself with it.”

“You would marry a woman that knows you so little as that?” Eowyn teased, turning her head to look back at their lovers as the music slowed then stopped. “Is she alright?”

Eomer began to answer but stopped and thought a moment, “I think she is, but I would not be surprised if she is pretending to be so. At present, in light of the announcement, she seems contented.” He smiled as Lothiriel and Faramir approached and accepted her offered hand, giving it a kiss. “It might be better I do not dance with you, Your Highness, as from a distance I have a much better view.”

Lothiriel blushed, shaking her head at the flattery, and at the look of disgust and nausea that Eowyn shot up at Faramir who smiled in reply.

“In truth, Lothiriel said, "I am satisfied that at least I will no longer be forced through introductions and reintroductions. If I had to dance with every unmarried man in his room, I would undoubtedly need to ice my feet by the end of the night.”

“You may already be made a legend among our soldiers for making my brother dance,” Eowyn laughed.

“Eothain is at the center of any such rumor, I am certain,” Lothiriel said, “What was he doing earlier? I saw him running about with some food.”

“Let us call it the fulfilment of a dream of torment by food,” Eomer sighed, wistfully.

Faramir’s eyes widened, before he chuckled, “He has been at the seasoned food then?”

“And dragged the rest of the army with him,” Eowyn nodded to where a gaggle of blonde men stood, scooping the Gondorian food onto their plates with relish. She shook her head, “It seems to be some contest of strength, but I cannot guess what the prize will be.”

“Only the right to claim superior digestion,” Lothiriel guessed, letting Eomer refill her goblet. She wondered how long before the lot of them were running for the facilities, their stomachs not used to the spices, but considered that thought too unladylike to voice. “Will you not join them?”

“I know my limits,” Eomer said carefully, considering a moment before he went on, “My grandmother played a similar joke on me when I was young and foolhardy enough to rise to the bait of it, and having learned that lesson once do not intend to repeat it.”

“You have eaten?” Lothiriel felt a sudden concern that he had kept himself from eating out of fear of discomfort.

“A little,” Eomer said, following her the short distance to one of the buffet tables and watched her make him a plate of the foods she thought he would like or be able to eat at least, and tried not to smile at the concern. He accepted the plate without hesitation, and they rejoined the other couple.

Faramir was studying her, a strange look on his face, some understanding mixed with sorrow, and that look startled Lothiriel.

“Are you well, cousin?” she asked, wanting to be told that there was nothing wrong and that he was only being… she could not think what she hoped that he was being. He was a sensitive sort and had often been given to strange flights of fancy, but this was something else.

He let out a sound in the affirmative, his head tilting a little, “Just a silly thought I had.”

“I am certain we could use a laugh,” Eowyn said, reaching to take Faramir’s arm before remembering that such a thing was far too informal and adjusted her movement to look as if she was righting the wide fabric of her sleeve.

Faramir looked as if he was at a loss for words for a moment, “I only mean that I had a feeling that things were going to work themselves out, but not in the expected way.” He stared at Lothiriel for a moment, and his gaze made her feel uncomfortable, as if somehow, he knew everything.

He had from time to time experienced foresight and had done his best not to put much stock into what he saw, having claimed that trying to stop things seemed only to make them happen. Lothiriel had thought that she had such a gift once, but it had faded with age, and she had come to make her predictions with the only basis being the actions of those around her.

If he knew what was planned, he would know why, and would know the benefits. But she wondered if he would try to stop them.

Eowyn and Eomer looked between them, trying to make sense of the heavy look that passed from one cousin to the other.

“Well I will certainly drink to that,” Eomer said, suddenly, wanting to break the weighted quiet, and raising his cup. “I am certain we have all earned things working out, no matter how they might.”

Faramir smiled, “I dare say.” He lifted his cup and drank looking over Lothiriel’s shoulder to where their Aunt stood gossiping, and to Imrahil chastising Amrothos over something said, but with that laughing tone that he used when people might overhear him. “I look forward to peace and quiet.”

“That sounds terribly dull,” Eowyn clucked, but they all knew she wanted it. She wanted a nice garden where she could sit and think and not need to worry over anything more than whether or not her children were getting into trouble.

There was hope in peace and they all knew that it would not be complete peace yet, but it was more than any of them could remember ever having in their lives.

“I might need to find some use for my skills,” Lothiriel said, thoughtfully, mischief in her smile.

“I have agreed to marry you,” Eomer began, “but I ask that you do not start some trouble in Rohan.”

“What if I stop trouble from being caused,” she asked, “but in doing so I would cause smaller troubles?”

Eomer groaned, “Is it too late to call off our wedding, or has your family already begun their planning? I would hate to inconvenience your aunt, who I am certain would take the deepest of offenses and have a pox put on me.”

Lothiriel pinched his arm, her face screwed up in mock insult at his words.

Faramir chuckled, “I would not be surprised to find that our king’s announcement was of Aunt Ivriniel’s making in some way. She was bending his ear on some matter earlier in the evening, and he might have seen surrender a better option than fighting.”

“Then I should thank her,” Eomer replied, “for while it has forced in to far more introductions and conversations than I would have ever wished, at least it puts some peace to my mind on the matter.”

“Does it?” Eowyn asked, her voice barely hiding her envy, “I should think that you would still be considering an abduction of some sort, or else of contriving a way to be married in the morning.”

“I am not so crude as that,” Eomer retorted, “I know little enough of the culture here, but I doubt that any such thing would be allowed without some scandal.”

“Some scandal?” Faramir laughed, “Well, perhaps not so much as you might think, save the matter that there would be some assumption as to the reason that you were so eager to hastily marry.”

“Is the fact that I would rather marry my intended not reason enough?”

“To a kindly mind perhaps,” Faramir raised a brow at Eomer, “If I may speak bluntly, the assumption would be that something improper happened, whether she was inspected or not.”

Eomer shook his head, “I do not like this place, and I am ready to be gone.”

“Are your countrymen so much better than we?” Faramir asked, no insult in the question, but more an interest.

“They are hardly perfect,” Eowyn said, “perhaps it would be better to say that we are more easily given to minding our own matters. Our women are not truly free to choose their lives, but they have more freedoms in the lives we are assigned to.”

“For example, if a man were to even attempt to take a woman against her will he would be killed if right justice was not able to be given under the law,” Eomer explained.

Something slid into place in Lothiriel’s mind at the words, and she looked up at Eomer’s stony face. He was not looking at her, or at anyone, his eyes scanning the hall with disinterest. She had heard the Lord Peldirion had died, and had felt the relief wash over her, and all that rage that she had carried in her heart for years, not having realizing it was there, loosed. The circumstances of his death as she had heard it sounded strange but then war was chaos. It made sense now.

He had not done it himself, he was certain of that, but he had ordered it, she knew it as soon as she saw the set of his brow. She should have found it repulsive, but she felt something not unlike gratitude. Was she meant to feel some judgement of what he had done? It was not unlike murder, but she felt comforted by the fact that he had acted in her defense, and in defense of her honor.

He finally looked at her and did not react to the knowing look she gave him and the gentle squeeze she gave his arm. They had an understanding, and they would never speak about it again.

“Well, there is likely no calling Boromir off,” Eowyn said, sensing the strange tension in the quiet between Eomer and Lothiriel, “I would hazard the guess that he has been planning the wedding since he came up with the idea to fling the pair of you together.”

“He is going to be a terror,” Lothiriel laughed at the thought.

“I can already hear him and auntie fighting over the arrangements,” Faramir chuckled to himself, “and everything else.”

“I suggest we drink our way through all of that to make it more tolerable,” Eowyn smiled, “For your brother is irritating at the best of times, and I imagine his thoughts on weddings will render him the most obnoxious fool I have ever been forced to suffer.”

“Wait until it is your turn,” Lothiriel teased, “and then you might complain. I intend to plan nothing and leave it all in his hands, for at least it will be lovely.”

Eomer looked at her as she took a long drink, smiling a little to himself as he fought the urge to wrap his arm around her waist. He liked her quiet determination to enjoy herself.

The sound of those clicking fingers made them all three stop cold, and Eowyn look about herself in confusion.

Faramir took a drink, shaking his head to himself at the audacity of his father to establish the control that he held.

Eomer’s hand caught Lothiriel’s arm a little more firmly than he should have, keeping her by him, and meeting her pleading look with a furrowed brow, “if your uncle has need of you, he can come here and speak to you.”

She clucked at him, “it is easier this way.”

“You are to be a queen, and I’ll not have you summoned like a serving wench,” he said, watching the slow smile bloom over her face.

“I am not a queen yet.”

“Do you mean to tell me that your uncle summons you in such a way?” Eowyn asked, flabbergasted, “And is this common, for I should make it clear that I will not be called in such a way,” she said, turning her gaze on Faramir suddenly.

In reply, Faramir held a hand up, “I would never.”

“Good,” she narrowed her eyes at him, before looking over at Lord Denethor, “Oh, he does not look pleased.”

“My lord,” Lothiriel began again, looking up at Eomer.

“I am only here until the morning,” Eomer replied, “if you wish to allow this behavior after I am gone, there is naught that I can do to stop you, but I will not stand here and allow it.”

“You are a stubborn thing,” Lothiriel grumbled at him, teasingly.

“You have no idea,” Eowyn said in mock horror, “I do not envy you the charge of being his wife. I should think you will come to hate me for what part I played in the matchmaking.”

Lothiriel’s eyes widened, “You were involved?”

Eowyn’s smile was a little smug, “Had you not guessed? I meant to blackmail Boromir into breaking off the betrothal until he told me what it was that he was plotting.”

“Why did you say nothing to me?” Lothiriel asked, stopping short of asking what she meant to blackmail Boromir over, deciding that such a conversation would be better held elsewhere.

“It all happened so quickly after I found out,” Eowyn said in her defense, “and I did little enough. I simply told Boromir to explain himself, as he thought he had done, and then explained to his fool,” she gestured to her brother, “all that I knew.”

“I do wish I could have watched it all,” Faramir admitted, “though in truth I would have told Boromir sooner that he was bungling it.”

“Would you have, though?” Lothiriel asked, knowingly.

“Eventually…” Faramir shifted his weight a little, “Would you mind terribly if I were to sit? I am still in some measure of discomfort if I stand for too long.”

Lothiriel clucked at him, and guided him a long to a seat by one of the dessert tables, chiding him for not taking better care of himself as he nodded along to her words as if they were a song that he knew the tune of well enough to hum it.

“Well, she might at least keep you healthy,” Eowyn teased her brother as they followed after the cousins. She watched as one of Prince Imrahil’s sons approached them with his wife, the pair of them smiling at Lothiriel, but with a sort of hesitation on their faces.

“It sounds as though congratulations are in order,” Elphir grinned, and kissed his sister’s cheek.

“Thank you,” Lothiriel grinned back at her brother as she helped Faramir to sit, feeling as if there was something that he was not saying, but tried not to ask. She wondered if she would grow weary of well-wishes, but as yet she was simply pleased to have won some part of the game that courtly life.

“Uncle wants you,” Elphir said warily, his eyes shifting in Lord Denethor’s direction.

“Does he?” Lothiriel said sweetly, “I had not heard.”

Gadrien grinned before hiding her mouth behind her hand and feigning a cough. “Whatever it is will keep, I think.”

Eomer’s hand rested against the small of Lothiriel’s back for a moment before he removed it, smiling awkwardly at her as she looked at him adoringly.

0x0x0

“It was kind of you to speak to the king,” Boromir smiled watching Lothiriel and Eomer continue to forget themselves. It was sweet and he wished that they did not need to be watched so, but then it might do the hearts here, that had been made weary by war, some good to see two people in love.

“If I had left it to you and my brother, and your honorable and fair ways it would have taken years,” Ivriniel smirked at her nephew. He had always been the sweetest of them, if a bit too dutiful, and a little to certain of his wisdom.

“What do you think father will do now?”

“Leave him to me,” she took a sip of her wine, and she did not need to say more in that subject, knowing that Boromir would not want to hear, and knew not to ask. “If all goes as I anticipate, your cousin will the Queen of Rohan, and that thought pleases me.”

Boromir let out a small groan, “Please tell me that you have not only helped Lothiriel to fulfill your ambitions.”

“My ambitions are not entirely fulfilled, nephew. If they were, she would be Queen of Gondor, but lacking the opportunity for that, I was glad to find another crown for her,” Ivriniel smiled at him, catlike and perhaps a little aware of the conniving nature of her words.

“But you did not want us wed,” Boromir pointed out, “and that was before you knew we would have a king at all.”

“You are too close, too like siblings,” Ivriniel sniffed, “and I disliked the thought of her staying in your father’s keeping, you know that. I know you both well enough to know that you would have not made a good marriage. Your temperaments are not well matched. She is a fierce little thing, and you are too soft to take her on.”

Boromir could not quite make out what it was that his aunt was saying in any way that did not sound as if she was rebuking Lothiriel, “In truth, I think you do not understand King Eomer as well as you think, if you are meaning to say that he will break her like one of his horses.”

“That is not what I mean at all,” Ivriniel protested, “He seems a sensitive man, for all his pretense to the contrary, and I can tell by the way he looks at her that he loves her dearly. My niece will marry for love, and I hope they can keep that love, and that they will be happy. The fact that she will be queen does sweeten it even more though.”

He took a deep breath and did his best not to point out that there should be little consideration of rank in pushing for this match but knew that such an argument would simply be like arguing with the wind. His aunt was a pragmatic woman, and it mattered little enough the reasoning as long as Lothiriel could have her way in the end. As long as Ivriniel did not mean to benefit further than that, Boromir could see little enough harm in it.

He wondered what it had been that his father had wanted Lothiriel for, but he had made no move to collect her, or send someone to do so. It was likely nothing beyond wanting to her talk to him without anyone listening or watching as closely as Eomer would do. Before the Rohirrim left, Boromir would assure their king that he would watch over Lothiriel as he had done.

0x0x0

The morning came and Lothiriel did not envy the riders that had drank their fill the night before and who now had to rise early to start for home. She slipped from her room to meet Eomer before his departure, wanting to walk down with him if she had not missed him, and have a few more moments with him before he left the city.

Eomer closed the door to the guest room as she approached him and hearing her footsteps he turned. That softened look that he always gave her warmed her heart and she had to stop herself from running down the corridor to embrace him.

“Good morning,” she smiled.

“If you say it is,” he took her hand in his as they walked.

“I should think you’d be glad to be done with Minas Tirith for all that you claim to dislike it,” she teased, watching him blush a little.

“But not so pleased to be leaving you,” he squeezed her hand, “It might seem as if I am fixating on that point, but I feel as I feel.”

She nodded thinking, “You will be back soon enough, and I will try to ensure we will have a marriage contract for you to negotiate.”

“I would rather think that you would be able to take some time to relax, rather than still be working so ferociously.”

She shrugged, “I am happiest when I have something to work on.”

“Then I might need to leave somethings undone in the Riddermark for you to take as a project,” Eomer slid her hand into the crook of his arm, his hand cupping hers.

“Such a touching notion, and how dreadful if you mean it.”

He chuckled, “No. But I might hope to write to you for advice if I needed it.”

“I am at your service, my lord.”

Eomer scanned the staircase carefully, slowing his steps, “I doubt I am allowed to kiss you goodbye.”

“Not in the sight of others,” she smirked up at him, taking a few of the steps back up, pulling her hand free from his, “but I think that it would embarrass you to do so.”

“Perhaps,” he admitted. It was mildly disorienting to have her eyes level with his.

She slid her arms around his neck and leaned forward to kiss him, smiling against his lips. It would not be so terribly long until she saw him again, and then however long her family requested until they were wed. There was something about that wait that made her nervous, the fact that she did not know how long it would be.

When they parted, she pressed her face against his shoulder, breathing in the smell of him for a moment trying to memorize it and the gentle way that he held her.

“Your men will be waiting,” she said when she stood back, smiling at him. She brushed his hair back from his face, the few locks that escaped his braid framed his face in gold as the sunlight struck them. Her fingers stroked against his cheek as she did, and she watched his face color a little as he looked at her.

“They can wait a moment longer,” he muttered.

“A king must always think of others before himself,” she chided, pushing him gently before twining her fingers with his.

“I will note, my lady,” Eomer smiled, “that while your council is full of truth, you make no step to make them true.”

Lothiriel pursed her lips, and took a step around him, “I suppose I ought to live as I would have others do.”

“I admire your convictions, though I do not share them.”

“Do you not mean to live in service as you have already done so well?”

“I might be a king, but with you I am only a man, and as such I would rather forestall my leaving for another few moments to enjoy your company. Even if it means that my men will be ornery for it.”

She turned as she walked across the landing and looked back at him, “I should think that you mean to change my convictions in spite of the fact that you claim to admire them.”

“I should think it would be impossible to change your thoughts or feelings on anything without much time an energy, and at present I have little enough of either.”

She beamed back, stopping a moment and looking through the window, “Perhaps I am not so fixed as I would have you think,” she glanced about a moment, “I might ask for another kiss, but you need to be quick.”

“I would thank you,” he said with all propriety as he smiled and caught her face gently and kissed for a long moment, ignoring her murmured insistence that he mind the time. She began to pull away and he stopped her, holding her close and kissing her again, taking the sting of her swatting hand without flinching or recoiling.

When he finally released her, she did her best to scowl at him, but failed as she grinned at him. “That was terribly naughty,” she giggled, “I should be quite angry.”

“But you are not?”

“No, I suppose that I find you too amusing,” Lothiriel said, chewing her lip a little.

He tugged her lip free of her teeth, smirking a little to himself as he did it before tracing his thumb over her lip.

“Eomer…”

“Yes?” he asked.

“I love you.”

He paused a moment as if he had not heard her properly, and he stared back at her for a moment before he grinned and kissed her again, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. Lacking the words to express his joy, he held her face in his hands and peppered it over with kisses. “My darling,” he beamed at her before kissing the tip of her nose.

“That is enough of that, young man,” Lady Ivriniel called up the stair at him, “There will plenty of time in your lives for the pair of you to pet at each other, hopefully in private.”

Eomer leapt back, his hands folding behind his back at being caught. “Lady Ivriniel… Good morning.”

“Indeed, it is,” Ivriniel smirked back at him, “Come along, Lothiriel.” She could not order a king about, but she could order her niece and knew that he would follow her.

Eomer offered Lothiriel his arm, and she took it, the dainty connection that was proper warmed him through, and even as he knew it should not be enough, somehow it was.


	23. Chapter 23

The first ray of sunlight that broke through her window woke Anthel and she silently grumbled to herself as she sat up. At some point in her life, she might finally sleep until she woke up of her own will, but that time had not yet come. She would need to wash, dress and get herself down to the kitchens to snatch some share of food before collecting the princess’ correspondences and having them ready for her. She then had to run back to the kitchen to fetch boiling water for the princess’ basin for her to use whenever she felt like it, and run back to the kitchen yet again to have her breakfast put on its tray and brought up to her before it was cold.

As the princess’ handmaid, she was the only servant that was allowed to enter her highness’ apartment without being summoned, or for scheduled cleaning. This did not mean that she was allowed to wander about the room or touch anything without permission, it did however mean that Anthel was able to keep a rather trim figure from all the running up and down the stairs. She also had the luxury of a finer dress than almost any other servant in the household. It was the one privilege of being a princess’ household that she could all but have her pick of Her Highness’ castoffs, whenever she actually managed to throw aside a dress that hadn’t fit her in years.

She combed and braided her hair before pinning it in place and wrapping her hair in a sheer veil and pinned that over her coiled hair, hoping that it would hold through the day. Checking herself in the small mirror, Anthel decided that she was presentable enough for the day, she opened her door and froze.

“Good morning,” Lady Ivriniel’s smile was anything but warm.

“Good morning, my lady,” Anthel curtsied quickly.

“You are just who I wanted to speak to,” Ivriniel stepped forward, forcing the maid to back into the room before she closed the door firmly, locking them both into the room.

“How may I help you, my lady?” It was not lost on Anthel the strange choice of words that Lady Ivriniel had used.

“I find myself quite wounded at a rumor that I have heard,” Lady Ivriniel said, sniffing and looking at the wooden chair in Anthel’s room, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve and dusting the seat off before she sat, “A little bird told me that you have been spying for Lord Denethor, which I found so very hard to believe as I was under the impression that there was an understanding between us.”

Anthel considered lying for a moment, but that would gain her nothing, “He pays me better than you do, my lady.”

“Is that the only concern?” Lady Ivriniel pursed her lips, disappointed, “Well, we could certainly have negotiated more favorable terms. I should hope that by now you would have understood that I am a kindly employer. How much did he pay you for the most recent little piece of information that you gave him?”

“Three gold coins,” Anthel said, leaning back against the wall, “How much is it worth to you?”

“I suppose that would depend on whether or not I will be scandalized,” Lady Ivriniel’s slow smile crept back in place.

“You will never know if you do not pay me.”

Lady Ivriniel gave her a look that was almost admiring, “Alright,” she took the purse from her belt with careful fingers and jingled the purse, “I will give you this purse of coin, and you are going to report on Lothiriel, only to me. If I find that you have spoken to anyone else, I will be quite displeased. Is that a fair arrangement?” she tossed the purse to Anthel, “If you bring me anything particularly interesting, then there will be more of that.”

She opened the purse to check the weighty contents, not able to stop her eyes from widening at the gold coins gleaming at her, “Most fair, my lady.”

“Now tell me everything that you know.” She listened to what Anthel said, and looked appropriately shocked by it, knowing that girls like this, who told their stories with wide-eyed relish required it, “Are you telling me that my niece went into King Eomer’s room after we had all retired, and that from what you heard she might have acted as a wife to him?”

Anthel nodded, feeling a little bolstered by the reaction, the same one that she had expected from Lord Denethor. Perhaps she would have done better to speak to a woman, who seemed to understand what her value was.

Sitting back, Lady Ivriniel rested her hand against her head, “I of course trust your discretion on this matter.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Lady Ivriniel stood, “I want to know who writes to her, and how oft those letters come. If you can find a way to see what is written to her as well, all the better.”

In truth it mattered little at present if the King of Rohan had taken her niece to his bed, the dishonor and sneaking aside. She wished they had acted better, but at least the matter would be sorted soon enough. They would be married, unless some unforeseen disaster were to take place. It was then imperative that they be married rightly. To ensure that there was no such disaster, Ivriniel would need to know everything. 

She hoped that she had not misjudged King Eomer and that he would be a good husband to Lothiriel. The girl deserved some joy in her life.

0x0x0

It was only a few weeks until she would see Eomer again, but it was strange to Lothiriel that she had been without him so long already. In her youthful surety, she had thought that it would be less difficult to continue their courtship at such a distance, but that certainty floundered and died in the cold light of reality.

At least she had her own work to focus on, her ledgers held her attention. They were not in truth her ledgers, but the ledgers of her uncle’s household, as she owned little enough in her own right, but had managed the household for years now, so no one thought anything of her studying the books. There had to be some sign of something ill, she knew, but there was nothing that she could find. Not even a smudged entry, or the mistake of the same ink and a constant hand.

She made social calls as well as she could manage it and kept herself busy to avoid needing to see her uncle. She wondered if she was being cruel, knowing what was coming, but she did not want to risk giving him some way to make a mess of the marriage that she had won, that her aunt had won for her.

0x0x0

Denethor stared ahead of himself irritably, trying to work out a way around the king’s announcement for the twentieth time that day, but every plan he began ran into the same problem. It was all but a royal degree that Lothiriel would marry King Eomer. The only way to get around that would be if either party refused to consent, or if he could find a way to drive them apart before a marriage contract was made.

There was little enough chance of that in King Eomer’s case, and he knew that would be a losing battle, that man was intent on possessing Lothiriel, and though he might think to do so tenderly, it galled Denethor to think of it. 

His niece was so young and knew so little of the world and had likely never felt romantic love in her life and was willing to throw her lot in with the horse lords for a young woman’s notion of happiness. He wondered if his niece might see sense if he explained to her how absurd this marriage really was and would be. There were too many differences between their two cultures for Lothiriel to ever be comfortable in that country and in that society. In time her affections would shrivel and die in a cold hall, and she would be utterly alone.

That was what he feared, that was why he tried to protect her, even if it seemed as though no one else could understand it. Lothiriel was a free-spirit, and he treasured that about her, but knew that such spirits could wither away so easily without care and attention. He had known that she would marry, and had tried to find her a match that would keep her close, for if that marriage went poorly, if her husband revealed himself to be some violent brute, or a drunken lech at least she would be able to come to him with her woes and something might be done about them. She could have been a landed lady in Gondor, and should some accident befall a bad husband, she would have those lands in her own right as a widow, doubly so if she produced an heir. But a marriage to a foreign king would tie Denethor's hands and render him all but useless in his inability to protect her.

Her family had never paid her the attention she had needed, and in their lacking, he had stepped forward to help her and guide her in what ways he could. They had been so close, and he had never thought that it would be any other way, but he had ruined that bond by smothering her. There was no one to blame but himself for this whole thing, Denethor knew. Though Lothiriel had made amends and claimed that all was well, and that she wanted nothing more than to return to the way that things had been, he knew that given a chance to flee she might take it without any hesitation.

He would join her for coffee tomorrow and speak with her plainly, and make his feelings and concerns clear, but he would leave the decision to her. He would apologize again, and he would never stop apologizing to her.

The knock at the door of his study pulled Denethor out of his morose thoughts and he cleared his throat, “Enter.”

Imrahil smiled at him, “Brother, you were missed at table.”

“Work has detained me yet again,” Denethor forced a wry smile, “Our new king needs managing, and I am endeavoring the best that I am able to do so.”

“Your dedication to this country is a credit to you,” Imrahil said, holding up the bottle of wine, “Will you spare a few moments, or have I caught you at a bad time?”

“Sit,” Denethor gestured to the open chair, “In truth I might need a break from my toils before my mind works itself to its death.”

Imrahil poured the wine, his hand trembling a little.

“Are you well?” Denethor asked.

“In truth, I am not,” Imrahil smiled, a pained grimace, “this matter of Lothiriel’s marriage has rendered me unable to sleep for more than a few hours at a time, and I fear it is beginning to show.”

Denethor let out a grunt of acknowledgement, “It seems that Faramir is quite taken with King Eomer’s sister. What is this new fascination with the Rohirrim?”

“Who can say?” Imrahil took his cup, studying the contents, “Though I suppose if we are to give up Lothiriel, we might take the Lady Eowyn in exchange.”

“Do you think that trade fair?”

“I think no lady would be a fair trade for my daughter, you know that. I only mean that King Eomer is close with his sister, and we might hold her as a surety that Lothiriel will be treated well,” Imrahil intoned, as if he had thought on it, “And perhaps, if it will make your son happy, you should approach King Eomer and see if he would agree to a match.”

“Perhaps I had better,” Denethor grumbled, drinking from the cup, and savoring the wine, the fruit favors paired so wonderfully with the oak and nut finish. It was a good vintage, he would check the label and have some set aside for his use, “Though I doubt the man would speak to me. He seems to hate me, though I can think of no cause that I have given.”

“No?” Imrahil raised a brow, lifting the cup to his closed lips, and moving his throat carefully.

“Well, perhaps I was not polite to him as I should have been,” Denethor agreed chuckling, “but I do not think that Lothiriel has ever looked at a man in such a way and I should have taken that better, but alas…” He took another drink, not wanting to dwell on the subject more than he already had, “This is rather good.”

“I must claim ignorance on what it is,” Imrahil admitted, “It is whatever they were serving at table.”

“You filched the wine?” Denethor asked, coughing a little through his laughter, “It reminds me of when we were young.”

“When the mornings after drinking too much did not hurt so terribly?”

“I miss those days,” Denethor smiled, drinking again.

Imrahil refilled Denethor’s cup, “I will drink to that.” He raised his cup in a toast and watched as Denethor drained the cup, coughing a little as he took a breath.

The room swam a little and Denethor sat back, “I have not eaten enough, I think. The wine is affecting me already.”

Nodding slowly, Imrahil smiled and waited, wanting to be certain that the deed was done before he left the room, taking the wine with him, and leaving no sign that they had been drinking at all. He hated this, but knew that it had to be done, his sister had said so, and she knew better than he, on this matter at least.

0x0x0

Aragorn looked about the Steward’s study, feeling strange to be in the room devoid of Lord Denethor, and knowing that he would never be in the room again. His guards searching the room did little to alleviate the feeling of disorientation.

Lord Denethor’s body had been moved soon after the discovery of his death, apparently brought on by a stroke, and Aragorn, while not having ever liked the man much had felt a grim sympathy at the thought of him dying alone. He had been found in his chair, still working on his policy papers, the picture of a dedicated man, and servant to his country.

It might have been disrespectful that they were searching the office so soon after his death, with little enough time to let the grief of it pass for his family. It would have been, had they not found that a few of the panels in the study had hidden records and files on members of state about the continent. He had every secret recorded and kept for his uses.

“Your Majesty?” Lady Ivriniel asked from the doorway, startling Aragorn out of his introspection as he looked over a stack of pages written about Theoden King, noting his strengths and weaknesses, some accurate, some not.

“My lady,” Aragorn straightened his back, attempting not to look like a guilty child caught at something, and must up as much of the image of kingliness that he could manage.

“What is this?” she looked about the office, concerned by the disarray, pulling the black mourning veil back from her face.

“An official investigation.”

“May I ask what you hope to find?”

Aragorn looked at his men a moment, all of whom had hesitated in their works, “Carry on,” he ordered, crossing the room to the lady, “There have been some accusations that your Brother-by-law may have taken money from the treasury. We have been seeking evidence on this charge for some time, but now we are able to search his records and see if there is any truth to it.”

She took a weary breath and dabbed at her eyes, nodding a moment, “I understand that you must investigate all accusations made, Your Majesty.” Her dark grey eyes looked about the room, and landed on the desk, her jaw setting. She swallowed past a hard lump in her throat.

It was the only thing that she did not need to playact her way through. That desk, sitting there stabbed her heart to see. For the first moment she felt sadness. Finduilas had been the best of them. Though Ivriniel had never really liked Denethor, even she could not deny how much he had loved her sister.

She wondered if Lothiriel knew that the pendant she wore had been her aunt’s, given to her when Denethor had first come to court her, or if she would come to hate it for that reason. Someone should tell her, and she would tell Boromir to do so if he had not already.

Ivriniel had not even realized that she had made her way over to the desk, her hand moving over the dark wood, that her hand had come to rest on its polished surface. He had kept a part of her closer to him through the rest of his days.

“Are you well, my lady?” Aragorn asked, concerned that the older lady would give in her grief and collapse in tears. He understood her dislike of Lord Denethor, but the shock of a death in a family could bring on such feelings whether they might be expected or not.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” she withdrew her hand as if she had been burned, “This desk was my sister’s, it was brought from Dol Amroth when she married. I had not expected to see it here, or ever again, in truth.”

Aragorn nodded, “I know this can be hard, my lady, but unfortunately I need to ensure that this investigation is done properly, and I cannot allow you to be here.”

“Of course. I ask again for forgiveness,” Lady Ivriniel said, pulling the veil down over her face again, and as she turned, she tripped on the desk’s leg. She caught herself on the desk, slamming her hand firmly against the desk’s top, triggering the secret compartment she knew was under the desk. “Oh, dear…” she said, standing back up slowly and curtsied training her eyes on the floor as she departed, “Will you pardon me?”

As she left the room, she heard one of the guards exclaim about the ledgers that had just fallen out of the desk, and she smiled to herself as she made her way back to her rooms.

0x0x0

There was relief, and she had known that her uncle was going to die, hell she had a hand in it. But Lothiriel felt herself moving through a grey fog at the news that it had actually happened. The entire court had gone into mourning and would be draped in black until the funeral next week.

There had been the question raised, and she felt a fool for not having considered it sooner, whether Lothiriel would mourn Denethor as her uncle or as her adoptive father. If she mourned as an uncle, she would be in mourning for two months at the absolute longest, and if she mourned him as a father figure, she would be in black for a year.

Boromir had decided to take on the full year but had made it clear that he did not expect anyone else to follow his example, not even his brother.

State mourning would typically require no formal celebration for at least a month, which Lothiriel thought might have sent certain things into disarray. As far as she had heard, no decision had been made on the matter of King Elessar’s wedding, and though she should have cared a little less, it plagued her.

Perhaps she ought to have suffered through living with Denethor a while longer and at least be able to have a few of the weddings that were pending out of the way first. But she countered that with the fact that Lord Denethor would never agree to let Faramir court Eowyn. He also likely have made some move against her betrothal to Eomer.

Over the last days, her mind had spun through these thoughts and more than she could keep track of. It was not the first time that this had happened to her, and each time she wondered if she was going mad.

She had barely moved from her seat by the window, until she went to sit with Boromir and Faramir to ensure that they were eating and that they were alright, or rather as alright as they could be.

Boromir clung to her and sobbed silently against her shoulder as Faramir sat awkwardly by, looking at a loss for what it was he was meant to be doing, but needing some distraction from his own grief.

They had robbed them both of their father, and she wondered if she would ever recover from that realization, feeling it carved into her soul. She had been so certain that it was the right thing to do, and now she felt as if she had thrown herself from a cliff and was actively struggling against the fall, snatching at the open air and finding nothing to hold onto.

What would Eomer think of her now? She was a murderer by her lack of action. She had provided the poison and had taken no step to warn her uncle that anything was coming for him.

Boromir pulled back from her, and clasped her face in his hands, looking at her, wiping tears from her face that she hadn’t realized she had shed. “Lothiriel, do not blame yourself for any of this.”

She shook her head, shaking, more tears coming.

“You did not do it,” Boromir sniffed, wrapping his arms around her, “and those that did,” he took a breath, “I understand it all, dear.”

“Father had a stroke,” Faramir said carefully after clearing his throat, “and that is all.”

Lothiriel shook her head against Boromir’s chest, trying to catch her breath so that she could speak, not as calmed as she should have been by the soft shushing that Boromir murmured over her head, his own voice creaking.

“He was not well,” Boromir said, his voice breaking a little, “and I wish it would have been different, but he meant to kill you. I saw that look in his eyes for a moment, and if you have not fought him, he likely would have.”

“He had recoiled when I attacked him,” Lothiriel sobbed, deep, ugly gasping sounds that formed words.

“If not then, he eventually might have,” Faramir said, “Do not blame yourself or anyone else.” There was a strange look in his eyes as he tried to focus himself.

The brothers both knew it was true, and that this had been coming, but it was still hard. They didn’t blame her, or anyone else in truth, but still the absence of their father, knowing he was never coming back, that neither of them had said goodbye was still hard.

0x0x0

Eomer stared at Eowyn, confused by the news, “are you certain?”

“This word comes from Faramir,” Eowy said, her face grim, as she reread the letter over their morning meal, letting the silence hang heavy between them as she looked over the words, “Lord Denethor is dead. He says to expect an official announcement soon. He wrote as soon as he was told.” She clasped her hand over her heart, looking at Faramir’s trembling handwriting, trying not to remember how she had felt at the death of her own parents.

Eomer slumped back in his seat, staring ahead of himself, trying to make sense of it, “Does he say how it happened?”

“A stroke, it seems.”

He didn’t believe it, not that he thought it was a lie, but that it did not seem real. It was a lie, he knew, on a moment’s reflection, but likely not a lie on Lord Faramir’s part. Someone had lied, or not corrected the assumption.

Lothiriel’s assertion that Lord Denethor would be taken care of, that Eomer need not react to what had been done to her rang over and over in his mind. He wondered how she had done it, if she regretted it, or planned to dance over her uncle’s grave.

He was going to marry a murderess. It was a strange thought, and he would not have in his wildest dreams have ever had that thought. Standing, he dropped his napkin back on the table.

“Where are you going?” Eowyn asked.

“I should write to them, send my condolences, do you not think?” Eomer asked.

“You might do better to sit a moment and collect your thoughts, brother,” Eowyn stared at him, “You are pale as a sheet.”

“It is a shock. How should I look?”

“You hated the man,” Eowyn said, “I expected you to exclaim your joy.”

Eomer looked about the sitting room, empty but for the pair of them, for a moment, debating if he should say what he thought. If he voiced his suspicion, he could not take the words back, and then Eowyn would know that her intended was living with a woman that had killed his father, and that the woman in question was like a sister to him. She would know that Eomer would marry her and that such a woman would be the queen here.

“Say it already,” Eowyn scoffed, dropping the letter to cross her arms.

“Does this news sadden you?”

“In truth? No. I feel for Faramir and Boromir,” she admitted, “We _should_ sympathize, having lost our own family.”

“I sympathize with them, of course I do,” Eomer replied, thinking carefully, before sitting back down and looking around the room. He dropped his voice, “Lord Denethor put his hands on Lothiriel.”

“In what way?”

He took another breath, “Do you remember what Lothiriel was wearing at the banquet? And what she wore when we left?”

“Of course,” Eowyn said, biting down on her frustration, “Her dresses had high collars. Are you implying that there was some damage those collars hid?”

He nodded, touching his own neck, “They were fading, but she had bruises here, and I could see where his fingers had been.”

Eowyn’s eyes widened a little at that, “Eomer…”

“I am not saying…”

“That Lothiriel killed her uncle?”

“I am not saying that,” Eomer’s words dripped significance.

“Nor will I,” Eowyn settled back in her seat, looking away a moment, “I would never be able to speak of this to Faramir.”

“If she did this, I doubt her family does not know in some way. The lot of them seem close.”

“Do you think he and Boromir would have sanctioned it?”

“Not that they… I do not know that they would involve themselves. In Boromir’s case I think he would have a sense of it but say nothing. I cannot guess what Faramir would do.”

“I know that he was concerned about the deterioration of the relationship between Lothiriel and his father. He thought it would come to blows and seemed rather ominous about it,” Eowyn admitted after a moment of silence, thinking back on Faramir’s words: ‘I had a feeling that things were going to work themselves out, but not in the expected way.’ Had he known, then?

Eomer rubbed at the back of his neck, irritably, “Lothiriel’s last letter said nothing of her uncle at all. She likely sent it before…”

“What makes you certain that she has done this?” Eowyn asked, making a note to circle back to ask if he was responding adequately to any letters sent to him.

“She told me not to concern myself with Lord Denethor, that it would be handled.”

“It might have been her intention to stop you from causing a scene,” Eowyn pointed out, “and in that case there is nothing nefarious in it.”

He stared at her for a long moment, her sensible and logical answers doing little to calm the suspicion that had lodged itself firmly in his mind. He was meaning to tell her that she was wrong, and that she was looking for a reason to tell him that he was overreacting, but he could not quite make himself speak as he looked at her.

“Eomer, the official cause of death is natural,” Eowyn said, leaning forward, a thoughtful look on her face, “Would it change anything?”

“What do you mean?”

“If she did this, would it change your intention to marry her?”

“No.”

“Then I would advise you not to ask her of it or speak of your thoughts to her. I know you seldom take my council, but on this, I would beg you. If she has not done it, then she would be offended. If she did, she would be fearful. You would take her as your wife no matter what her answer would be to the question, and I know you want to ask, but please for your peace I would have you not do so.”

He let out an irritated breath, “It is not for that reason that I would ask her at all. It is only that I do not like that she keeps secrets back from me.”

“Some things are better kept secret.”

“Not between a husband and wife.”

Eowyn rubbed at her brow, trying to find the words that would stop her brother’s foolish mind from doing what he wished.

“Do not give that look,” he grumbled back at her, “You know that I speak the truth.”

“Let us say that someone asked these things of me. How would you take such words?”

“Why should they?”

“What if someone were to suspect that I had killed our uncle? I was found near his body and had ample cause to strike out at him.”

“What cause would you have?” Eomer asked, his hackles raising.

“If he had turned from Wormtongue at the first sign of what he was, then Theodred would still live, the Westfold would not have burned, and we would not have cause to go to Helm’s Deep,” Eowyn spat back, her own contained rage from years of inability sprung forth.

“That is different!”

“Theodred was not even meant to have been on patrol when he was!” she all but screamed, “He should have been here, but he had already heard the rumors of ill work in the Mark and went afield to see for himself. Yes, he helped Lothiriel, but had their paths not crossed he might not have died at all! She would have likely found her way to a village and been safe. But because our uncle decided that he could trust someone that he should not have and took every ounce of that poison in until he had no will left to himself, Theodred is dead.”

Eomer sat back, knowing the truth in her words, but not wanting to agree aloud.

“If Theodred had never gone, if uncle had done what he should have and not given himself over to such devices as were in place, who knows what could have been, but he did. I would be lying if I said it had never entered my mind to put him out of his misery. So then, what would you say if I was accused of what you now suspect Lothiriel of?”

He crossed his arms, his breath heaving as he stared at her, “It would displease me.”

“Indeed. It might be nothing, but you would think to tell that young woman that she has committed such an act as that. For the insult you would take if such a thing was said of me, I would beg you not to say a word to her.”

0x0x0

As midsummer day drew close, a few members of the court shifted from full mourning to half, the funeral having been done right and with all the splendor that they could have managed given the short notice. The women’s high keening echoed through the city, and Lothiriel’s part in it had been choked and heavy, the weight of her guilt as she looked on her uncle’s body made her double over, her hands clasping themselves over her heart.

Prince Imrahil had discreetly taken the measure of the court and had confirmed with King Elessar that there was no need to forestall his wedding, that even those that had been the greatest supporters of Lord Denethor were so weary of sorrow and grief that they were of the opinion that the wedding might be called for, as a balm against the darkness that had been over them so long.

The fact that some of them had grumbled about the fact that they had no one to represent their interests to this interloping king, and that in their opinion Elessar had little enough right to take over the running of their country, old line of nobility or not, was held back in Imrahil’s mind. There was no point in telling the king that it was the case that some of the high lords of the country thought that it was best to let King Elessar do as he pleased so that they might ingratiate themselves to him until they knew him better, and then to begin manipulating his policies and decisions.

It would be a lie if Imrahil said that he did not in some part share these thoughts, and that the hope that he would not lose his holdings had formed some part of his agreement to accept the king’s coming early.

He sat with his family, trying to collect, for his own assurance, their feelings on the death of Denethor, and found that Lothiriel took it all harder on herself than she should have. He could not imagine how terribly she would have been doing if Ivriniel’s initial plan of having her do the deed herself had come to fruition.

There were words of comfort that he could give her, and as far as was prudent he did so. He found himself regretting his action only so far in the fact that he had caused her such misery but knew that perhaps he had prevented something worse. The thought that perhaps Eomer King would be able to make her smile again came to Imrahil against his will, but he wondered if this grief would sour the affections between the young couple.

0x0x0

Eomer fought his smile as he bowed to Lothiriel, not certain that she could yet return it. She, as the rest of her family, was garbed in black, and it was in truth a terrible thought that he thought she looked lovely in black.

The thin veil that she had draped over her face was pulled back, and hung back over her hair, and her face peered wearily up at him. Her pale eyes were at least not red from weeping, but there was a deep sadness in them still as she curtsied to him and offered him her hand.

Kissing her hand, he was distinctly aware of the chaperones about them in her sitting room. He wished that they would leave them be and let them speak naturally rather than in the stilted way that he knew would come with their quiet, hovering presence.

As she took her seat again and picked up her needleworking, Eomer sat by her, watching her face and her trembling fingers, “I am sorry to have heard of your loss, Princess.”

Her dark head nodded, “Thank you. And thank you for writing so.”

He tried not to wince, wondering if he should have written more, and if she had needed that of him.

Speaking of loss, and of consolation was hard enough when one was not sitting with an aunt and a brother’s wife just on the other side of the room, the pair of them looking over at them from time to time, either out of a duty to ensure that nothing went wrong, or out of curiosity. If he could have held her, perhaps she would have felt better, but then she might have shoved him away.

Lothiriel took a shallow breath before forcing a smile, “How have you been? Does kingship please you, or have you found it to be as dreadfully dull as you feared?”

“Tis a burden and a dull one at that,” Eomer admitted, smiling softly at her, “but one that I shoulder as well as I might. Though, I do look forward to having a helpmate.”

“And you are certain I will be a help?”

“You can hardly be a harm. My lords will not stop squabbling at me until they get their way, and I find myself miss the war, that was far simpler.”

She clucked at him chuckling, knowing that he did not mean it in truth, “I should hope that you have not been taking your spear with you to your meetings with them.”

“I have been tempted, but alas, no.”

Lothiriel shook her head a little again, sitting quietly. She smiled a little as Eomer took her hand in his, and could feel him wanting to speak, but not being able to find the right words. His hand in hers felt as if it was enough for now at least.

She could see the question in his eyes, the one that he was trying so hard not to ask, and she almost thought to answer it, one of many questions.

Looking carefully at where her aunt and her sister-by-marriage sat drinking their coffee and speaking in low tone to each other, she calculated how quiet she would have to be to speak. “I did not kill him,” she whispered.

Eomer startled at the quiet declaration, “I would never… I did not ask.”

“I know, but I did not do it.”

He tilted his head, “Nor did I ask if anyone had.”

“You did not need to,” she looked down at their hands, her voice shaking a little, “You did not need to…”

“Lothiriel,” he said, “if there is any way that I might help you, you know that you have only to ask.”

“I do not think there is much help to be given at present,” she admitted, looking up at him, “You know the nature of loss. It does not always make sense, but then what feelings do?”

He nodded slowly, “Be that as it may, my love. I am here, and I should like to do anything that I might. I wish I could have been here for you sooner.”

“You bore your grief better than I have,” she smiled sadly, “I have been rather a tragic figure, and perhaps it was better that you have not been here to see it.”

“I would rather have been here, no matter your state” He squeezed her hand a little, smiling at her in a slow and understanding way. “I have missed so.”

“Have you?” she asked, arching a brow at him, “I would never have guessed that from how little you wrote.”

He winced, “I am sorry for that. In truth I have had little enough to tell you, and anything I could write would be so terribly dull that I could not manage it.”

“I would rather have had dull words than nothing.”

“I know,” he at least looked ashamed.

“Do you think that you might do better?”

“I will certainly make an attempt.”

She knew he meant it, but she wished that he would simply do the thing, not claim that he would try. Her temper had been bad lately, and she knew it would likely pass, but she knew that she needed to hold it back and hold it in check. This would pass. “You had best do so, or else.”

“Or what?” he smirked at her gentle malice.

“I have not thought that far ahead, I confess.”

He chuckled, “Well when you consider what punishment you will give my thoughtlessness, please tell me so. Then I may at least keep it as a warning to myself.”

“Is my displeasure not warning enough?”

“Of course, but I would know that that displeasure will cause.”

She ran her thumb over the back of his slowly, feeling a little better for their teasing, but wishing that she could rest her head on his shoulder for a moment. She might see if she could sneak into his room again, in the few long nights that he was staying in Minas Tirith. They were to be married, and as soon as the contracts were negotiated and their betrothal signed, they were by law as good as married, all they would lack was the ceremony of it and the announcements of it. That and the last contract that would be signed.

Eomer glanced at their chaperones again, not understanding the purpose of them beyond the obligatory hurdle between himself and his beloved. That was not entirely true. He understood a family wanting to ensure that nothing happened to one of their children, but he wished they would leave them be, and trust him enough to know that his intentions were not to do anything to harm her or dishonor her.

He kissed the back of her hand again, holding the kiss and the moment for longer than may have been appropriate, but he did not care. Let them stare at him. He couldn’t speak naturally or ask her any of the fresh questions in his mind. There were a great many things beyond those question that he felt he could not ask in the presence of others. He knew them in passing, but not enough to know how far he should extend his trust to them.

The door to the sitting room opened, and a page stood there, giving a low bow, “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.”

Eomer stared at the youth in confusion and mild vexation, “Yes?”

“His Grace, Prince Imrahil had wondered if you were quite ready to speak with him.”

Eomer forced his face into something like a polite smile and nodded, “I will be along shortly.” As the door closed, he turned his attention back to Lothiriel, “Have you any words of council for a poor fool?”

She smiled, “Do not bungle it too terribly.”

“Oh ho, that is so very kind of you, my lady, and I am pleased to hear that you have such confidences in me,” he chuckled, standing, still holding her hand in his. “I will do my level best not to give insult or cause any sort of diplomatic disaster.” He bowed over her and, squeezing her fingers again before turning to their chaperone, flattering a moment, not certain what one said to a chaperone if anything, “Thank you ladies for your company.” He bowed and made his way as casually as he could manage from the room.

“Are you certain you wish to marry that strange awkward man?” Ivriniel asked after a moment.

“He is not awkward,” Lothiriel said, sighing, “I think he is at present not certain what to say, as everything is quite… different than it was when he was last here.”

“He seems a nice enough man,” Gadrien said, taking Lothiriel’s side, “A little shy, but I think he has a good heart.”

“I do not doubt it,” Ivriniel objected, “I only mean to ask if you are certain.”

“Are we not too far past the point of asking such things?” Lothiriel asked.

“It is not too late until the marriage is consummated.”

Gadrien’s eyes widened comically at Lothiriel at the word, and Lothiriel had to stop herself from laughing.

“You will not always be in mourning,” Ivriniel said, looking between the women with a dismissive quirk to her brow, “And it might not be prudent, or appropriate for me to say, but I would put the whole business of your mourning behind you and not concern yourself with it any further than social obligation would dictate.”

Lothiriel looked at her aunt for a long moment, trying to hold her tongue.

Gadrien looked between them, a slow turn of her head, as if trying to decide what she ought to say, if anything. “You know, I think your father means to ask for a delay in the wedding.”

Lothiriel raised her brow, “I am in mourning, we all are.”

“Well, I had heard that Faramir meant to make a proposal at the earliest convenience. To Lady Eowyn,” Gadrien said, dangling to gossip like a carrot, “and I have been meaning to ask if you think King Eomer would agree.”

“I see no reason he would not,” Lothiriel said, “They seem to get on well, Faramir and Eowyn, I mean, and I think that Eomer would in truth agree to anything that might make his sister happy.”

“Even if it meant they would see so little of each other?” Ivriniel asked, “They seem quite close.”

Thinking a moment, Lothiriel arranged the words to the best of her ability, “I think it will be hard for him, but I do think he would put her happiness before his own. They have both of them had enough sorrow in their lives to want no more of it than they must.”

“We have all had enough of it,” Ivriniel said, “I do not mean to sound as if I against this marriage, for I most certainly am not. It is only that we have just gotten you back, and I wish that we had more time with you.”

The words rang true and Lothiriel wanted to cry at them, but she did not. She had spent so much of her life drowning in rage and in uncertainty.

Their new king was to be wed the day after next, and she would have a day to be out of her black frocks, even if there was some measure of comfort that she might take in them. 

0x0x0

The negotiations were not as odious as Eomer had anticipated, and he found that he could manage it well enough. Prince Imrahil asked for little in the contract besides trade agreements, the one point that Eomer hesitated on was a matter of trade. He stared at the figure offered and frowned.

“Does that displease you?” Imrahil asked.

“I cannot sell you grain at this price, without risking our ability to resow in the Westfold,” Eomer said carefully, “May I offer you a counter of a silver piece for each ten pounds of grain?”

“That is acceptable,” Imrahil said slowly, “Though I ask what you mean to do with my daughter’s dowery?”

“I will discuss it with her,” Eomer said, almost firmly, “I understand that it is different here, but I think of it as her money. I would not think to put it into my country without her agreement.”

The prince gave a slow smile, “And do you think to have it?”

“I cannot say, having not discussed it with her.”

“Then you mean to have a marriage made of partnership?”

“That is the only way I can think of,” Eomer said, confused by the question, not certain if he was meant to say that he would have Lothiriel act as a quiet and submissive wife. If that was what Eomer had wanted, he would have chosen a different woman.

“Good,” Imrahil smiled, “May I speak frankly?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“I had expected you to argue more over the few conditions I have.”

“You mean your request for a few months’ time to pass before we wed. I understand such a request.” Eomer did his best to smile, knowing before the prince explained himself, what the reason was.

“I mean to spend some time with my daughter before she leave us, and to repair the relationship that I damaged,” Imrahil said, wincing a little through the words, “I would rather her not leave this country as still a stranger to me.”

“I know, and I understand,” there was something in that strange distant look that Eomer read and he felt a pit form in his stomach at it. If Lothiriel said she had not done it, and if it had not been natural causes, then someone would have killed Denethor, and if he turned his mind a little, he could see Imrahil doing it.

That thought solidified as Imrahil’s gaze met his, with a steely determination, as if he was expecting some challenge.

“I agree to all terms that we have made here,” Eomer said, pouring the wax to make his seal on the amended contract. “There was something I wished to ask. It is not a matter of the marriage, but rather, there was something that I had thought might please Lothiriel but was not certain that it would be deemed entirely proper.”

Imrahil’s brows raised, not certain what he might expect to be asked after such a preamble.

0x0x0

Lothiriel looked up from her book, not certain who would be coming into her chambers that had Anthel so quiet. She had no engagements this afternoon, and she wondered if something had happened in the family, or if perhaps the negotiations over her marriage contract had gone so poorly. She had heard nothing on the matter and was growing nervous.

“My lady,” Anthel curtsied, “King Eomer of Rohan is here, and he has brought… he said to tell you that he brought a friend for you.” The look on the handmaid’s face made it clear she did not like that description in the least, but it raised Lothiriel’s curiosity.

She set her book aside and carefully got to her feet, coming out into the sitting room. Her smile widened at the sight of the dog beside her intended, “Oh, hello, my good boy, Caelon.” She stooped, scratching his head,

“The talks went well,” Eomer said, “if you cared to know.”

“I am certain they did, but I am quite displeased that you did not tell me that you brought Caelon with you.” She giggled as Caelon bounded himself up and pressed his paws to Lothiriel’s shoulders.

“Sit, boy,” Eomer pushed the dog down by his shoulders, “I was not certain that it was right to bring him into the citadel, but your father said that it would cause no trouble.”

“Oh no trouble at all,” she ruffled his fur, “Have you been sleeping outside with the army, dear boy? Have you? You may sleep indoors tonight, and be quite comfortable.”

“Not too comfortable,” Eomer objected, “I will not have all the meanness coddled out of him.”

“Everyone says that he is mean, but I have not seen a shred of that. I think you told people he was mean, and that word spread, and everyone avoided him thinking him so.”

“That sounds dangerously close to calling me a liar, my lady,” he said, failing to check his smile.

“You have refused this very good boy all the praise that he rightly deserves, and I will not have that,” she beamed up at Eomer, almost challenging him to tell her that she was wrong

“I told one person and it was a joke for he is…” Eomer looked at Caelon’s happy face his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Eomer would not be wrong in saying that his dog was not the most clever of beasts, but he was a good boy, “Well… fearsome he is not, unless he truly dislikes a person.” He watched Lothiriel lead Caelon over to sit by the chaise so she could sit and pet him, “I had hoped you might watch him for a few days.”

She smiled at Eomer, “Did you bring him to cheer me?”

“Has it worked?”

Perhaps,” her smile widened, “Though I will not ask how you brought him here.”

“In a cart, and he gave no complaints as to the traveling accommodations.”

She shook her head, “The talks with my father went well, you say?”

“They did,” he nodded, sitting beside her, “Should I be here?”

“Anthel,” Lothiriel called, “sit a moment.” She gave Eomer a look of, ‘well, it is now.’

Eomer smiled at her, beginning to look over his shoulder at the maid, but stopping himself short, “I prefer to see you smile, and if I must give you use of my dog, then so be it. But I would like to be assured that you are not only marrying me for him.”

“I make no such promise.”

“I would make a recommendation, but I warn you it is quite…” he hesitated, “he is rather… affectionate, and I should mean to warn you of it.”

“Is he going to hump my furniture?” Lothiriel asked before she could think to check herself and giggled, looking down at the hound and his wide eyes. “Well, at least he will not get any pups out of a table.”

“No, but do not doubt that he will put all of his efforts into it.”

Lothiriel laughed, a quick sound before she pressed her hand to her mouth.

“I have tried to break him of it, I swear,” Eomer blushed through his smile, “but he is what nature made him.”

She shot him a smirking look, not believing that he had tried to train Caelon out of anything but said nothing.

The door to the chambers opened and Ivriniel stood there, staring at them and the hound with a measure of stunned confusion, before she remembered herself and curtsied, “Your Majesty, I had not expected to find you here.”

“My lady,” Eomer stood and bowed, “I had only come to tell Loth- Princess Lothiriel that her father and I have reached an agreement on the matter of the betrothal contract. “

“And you have brought… an animal.”

“This is Caelon,” Lothiriel smiled, petting his head, “Father said it was alright.”

“Has he?” Ivriniel’s smile was hard but present, “Well, that is… good.” She nodded, keeping the smile in place, “What does he eat?”

“Orcs mostly,” Lothiriel said, seriously, “He likes their throats best.”

Ivriniel shook her head, letting out a weary sigh, “Niece, that your joking nature has not gotten you into more trouble is a wonder.”

The look that Eomer gave Lothiriel was tender, and free of any such assessment and she smiled back at him, blushing a little. He could live his whole life with her teasing, even if she directed it at him, liking it when she directed it at him. She was serious when it was called for, but otherwise was light. He could still see the grief in her and wanted to wipe it clear in whatever way he could. She had said there was nothing to be done, but he would still try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are always appreciated.
> 
> I have been having rather a hard time lately, and could use any assurance that this story is liked at all.
> 
> Thank you for your time and for reading!


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